Bridget Lorraine | Too Much Space

    I lost my key.

    Actually, he ran away from me.

    There had to be a glitch in the code. As immersive as this experience claimed to be, it was unsettling to feel my toes slowly submerged into the rocky sand. I stayed optimistic. The black puny pebbles rose, encasing my ankles up to the curve of my calves.

    Freestanding and foreboding, the door defied logic. A bit of video game magic. One hand to the door in the centre of the moon made my positive attitude falter. It would not move and no knock elicited any visitors. The handle locked itself firmly in place.

    “A-hem.” To break the startling quiet of the man-made atmosphere. The sound fizzled out leaving a faint echo.

    “I want to quit.” Louder.

    My shout slammed the door while my knuckles hit harder.

    “Menu.” Increasing my volume and ferocity yielded the same result. “Menu. Home page. Escape. Escape. Escape!”

    Spamming the controls did not change a thing. It likely only caused further malfunctions to the system.

    A slithering slippery key usually wormed itself around my arm. More of a pet than a tool, I was shocked it slid away. It moulded itself into any shape or size I needed in an instant. Now, all alone, I realized how co-dependent I had become.

    All I wanted was to beat this game. The beta testing generated imperfect results, but an early exclusive look was all too tempting.

    Solitude was my strong suit. Yet my key kept popping up to provide shortcuts until I finally conceded. Even when I knew what to do, things that were second nature suddenly became foreign.

    Tired of tutting about, my back found the door while my butt found the flimsy floor. I was stuck in peaceful nothingness, watching the black beyond ripple here and there.

    “I want to go home.” A whine.

    My fingers found solace in the sand, feeling its cool climate crease the contours of my hand. Suddenly, something hard. Have
I reached the bottom? No, the hilt of something.

    Oh.

    A key! A built-in fail-safe in the code. Of course!

    Damn, it was an old one.

    I fumbled with the weighty object, pouring my eyes over its groves. The shiny silvery metal was starkly different from the perfect piece of code that was my effortlessly agile key.

    I hefted the heavy key up to the hole. All I had to figure out was which end to put into the door, that was, if this even went into the keyhole and not a different tool altogether.

    My key always did whatever I pleased, no matter if I even knew or wanted that pleasure. This key was stagnant and immovable, unlike the sand washing over my space suit.

    I pressed the key to the door. It did not transform. I made a wish on a shooting star. Still, I was locked out and imprisoned in a cyber tech trap. I could do nothing.

    I forgot how.

Bridget Lorraine is a writer based out of Vancouver, B.C. Her work has been published in ‘decomp journal.’ As the founder of Bumbling Bee Studio, Bridget finds herself deep in sketches and drafts for her recurring comics, zines and other artistic ventures including watercolour painting and doll-making. In her free time she is an avid reader always on the hunt for her next other-worldly find.

Website: bumblingbeestudio.com | IG: @bumblingbeestudio