This was written from a prompt given to me by my friend Leslee. The original prompt was:
What Giovanni liked the most about being a professional photographer was working with male models -- especially on portfolio shoots og men in bathing suits, sporting killer abs.
Leslee and I have very different tastes in writing, so I pretty much ignored the theme of the prompt, and wrote this:
Of course, Laura wasn't a professional photographer. Laura wasn't anything at all. Laura was in a coma, suckling nourishment from a plastic bag -- but she was having the time of her life in her head.
Until one day, the electricity failed. There were no more nurses. Her family failed to visit her beside and hold her hand. There was no one to feed her, no one to clen her, no one to check her vital signs.
Laura was alone. For days she laid in her bed, as dust gently fell and settled around her, as day turned to night and did it again. Her breath became labored.
One night, a camera formed from her hand. It could not be described as an organic process, in fact it formed of no known process. It extruded from her palm and fingers, a fully functioning camera.
Yes sorry, there's where it ends. I think it's an interesting scene, but I don't think the story has anywhere to go (and it reminds me too much of 28 Days Later).