The Short Story, of a Short Story.

"Yessss, ohhh yessssss," she moaned in pure pleasure, as the sensations registered in the labyrinths of her mind. 


It had been coming, long overdue, she felt. And as the gush of emotions took over, stroked repeatedly by its fire, she found herself lost in that moment. THE [*stress*] moment. It captured her entire self, ambushing each and every other thought into a marooned island. For right now, nothing else mattered.


And indeed, nothing else mattered. It was a frenzy. A hypnotic trance, she had entered into. Each tick of the clock brought with it a blurriness, one that seduces into submission. She had begun breathing through her both her nose and mouth, panting, quick, shuddering breaths, each of which signaled the want for more. The nervous pathways were overloaded. Overworked. They complained and made faces to each other as they passed on the sensory information the owner felt. But to their dismay, it kept growing. Exponentially.

She got louder, as the end shaped. Her hands flailed wildly into space, gesticulating in a manner that even a creature born to the outer world would have had difficulty to decipher. She could feel its outline inside her, taking shape, to launch her to heights unimaginable.

At last, it came. She fell sprawling down on the floor from the impact, completely drained of energy, with a sense of euphoric triumph that comes with conquering the unconquerable.
"Yess!! This is it."
Pause.
"Yess.", she murmured inaudibly, while a smile started to paint itself upon her face as her world faded into black.



She was found dead, a week later. Drug overdose, they concluded and stereotyped. "What a waste!" one of them commented even.
Her lifeless form, meanwhile, looked on at them, still smiling. For they were not to know, that in her last high, a story was born. But one that never got to live, cut short by fate.