She had a slight accent, a soft one that dragged out what she was saying. It reminded him of a cool summer breeze blowing by him as he lounged around in the shade. When the words actually sunk in he wanted to shout in joy but even the thought of movement hurt his body. ‘Move your hand.’ He stared at her blankly for a moment before the realization dawned on him. He quickly snatched his hand off of her breast. ‘Sorr… sorry,’ he stammered. The sudden movement away from the warmth of her breast left his hand feeling cold and oddly empty. The empty feeling lasted only a moment before his entire side exploded with pain as he gasped and fell onto his back. The simple act of moving his arm away from her hurt like hell. He hadn’t felt this bad since he’d been… stabbed… He had been stabbed, sliced open. He furrowed his brow which only caused more pain to explode through his body. A soft hand slid behind his neck, propping his head up. Cold liquid fell on his lips, trickling down his chin.. This time the humanoid figure was glowingslightly, pulsing even. I awoke still on the plane with my hand in mypocket clutching the stone tightly."I wonder if that's some kind of sign." I thought to myself.---Back home life went on as usual, except that after work every day Iwould come home with photos I had printed at work, magazines I had seenor any other media that I thought would be interesting. I spent mynights learning and experiencing. I learned that when I entered aphoto, my emotions took on slightly the same feeling as the photoportrayed. Once I had ended up crying my eyes out for the entirefifteen minutes I was in a photo, because the girl in the photo lookedsad. Through trial and error I had also learned that to wish myselfback home I had to close my eyes tightly before I wished.Once during my experiments I had taken a photo of my own living room,with the stone sitting on the table. When I set the stone on it, I waswhisked into the photo but there was no stone. I also.
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