This is a little excerpt from a short story I wrote a couple of months ago. Its entitled “Extreme Procrastination” and it’s about me talking to a CD player in a fit of madness one night. Enjoy!

***

A gentle whirring noise brings me out of my thoughts. I take out my earphones and listen. The noise grows louder with each passing second. If this wakes up anyone in my house I’m dead. Then I see it. My CD player is making the noise. It’s not plugged in, and they generally don’t make such an odd sound its no wonder I feel childlike worry creep up my back. My immediate reaction, turning the “ON” switch to “OFF”, works instantly. It falls silent. Breathing a sigh of relief I get back to work. That was weird. Even chilling. I convince myself that it was just some static on the radio. There’s nothing at all to get worried about. Yet even as I go back to writing an electronic voice explodes from the CD player. It sounds like someone dragged their nails down a very long blackboard. The voice booms at me in perfect English;
“You have some goddamn nerve kid, trying to turn me off.”
I sit there dumbfounded. It just talked to me. It just talked to me. I gape at my CD player in wonder and horror. Impossible. I just turned it off and it’s not even plugged in. But on closer inspection of the phantom player, the switch was back on the on position and the plug was firmly input in the socket under my desk.
“What in God’s name are you lookin’ at?”
“It is quite late.” I think to myself “A sick dream perhaps?”
I investigate this theory by firmly stabbing myself in the hand with my pen. I utter a stupid surprised scream as I realize how much this hurts and, how very real this all was. I was awake alright. The CD player gave an electronic snort of laughter.
“Jesus Christ boy, you’re as thick as you look!”
I wince at the sound of his voice. There he goes again, talking. I decide to try and talk to it. I mean a CD player is talking to me. I got do something. So, I take a deep breath, make a mental note to have my head checked and I begin to speak.

I start slowly.
“A- am I mad?”
The monitor shone a violent red on the CD player. I might have annoyed it.
“Mad?” It boomed back at me.
I nodded.
“No you’re not!”
“Ok then. Eh- Am I dead then?”
“NO!”
“So this is real?”
“Yes.”
“But are you really sure I’m not mad?”
“Shut your trap!!!”
I do.
“This… is… real… okay?”
I don’t answer. He told me to shut up after all. And I have no problem with that seeing I can barely speak as it is.
“OK?”
“Yes.”
“That’s better. Kids today are so thick.”
I’m shaking. Literally shaking. I think I’m the first person in the world to have been yelled at by a CD player. On one note, it’s quite amusing. Then again, it’s also terrifying.
“Even if this is real, what the does a CD player want from me?” I ask him shakily.
“Glad you asked. Finally we can get down to business. I’m going to help your writing.”
I stop shaking. Has he been listening to me muttering to myself? Or worse; even reading my work? And if so, for how long? Maybe since I bought the damn thing? If so, I can safely say I regret that purchase.
“Now tell me,” it roars, “What problems are you encountering?”
“W- Well,” I begin, “I can’t seem to give much detail or decent descriptions into my stories. And I don’t think many people like my stories. Why are you helping me? And what’s you’re name?”
The CD player starts to shake violently. It lets out another cyber scream similar to when I turned it off.
“ALWAYS ASKING SUCH STUPID QUESTIONS!!! I’m helping you with your problem so you can stop whining about it, which I can’t stand. My name, if you must know, is Bassy. I’m male, forty-nine years old; I’m divorced and have one kid. Now
I snigger. It’s probabl