Framed

I feel like, for this short story to make sense, I need to paint you a picture of my bedroom. I won’t literally paint you a picture. I’m not that talented. Also, it would be a boring picture. Anyway, my room isn’t anything special. But you need to be aware that my small bed is in the corner of the room. To the left of where my head lays is a wall. On that wall is a large poster of an Ansel Adams photograph of Mount McKinley.

On with the story…

Last night, I woke with a start. I looked above me (to the left) at that large photograph of Mount McKinley, and quietly shouted, “What?!”

At first glance, I believed that the frame that surrounded the portrait had fallen off. I don’t know why I thought that. Internally, I thought, what happened to the frame? I even checked the small space between my bed and the wall to make sure the frame hadn’t fallen into that crack. Of course it hadn’t fallen. How could the frame have fallen if the poster was still on the wall (behind glass). I shook my head and called myself an idiot before rolling over and going back to sleep.

Did I dream that something fell off the wall, causing me to wake up with that suggestion in my head? I just don’t know. I just know that if I interrupt my own deep sleep for something that is clearly an imaginary problem, I will be irritated enough to call myself an idiot out loud.Let Me Sleep

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