. . .

Bagged

Inside the bag was the room. Inside the room was me. I was holding the bag. Inside the bag was the room.

I looked up. There was no ceiling. Above the walls was me. I was looking up.

The metaphysics of the situation appealed. I was in a room in a bag which I was holding. If I reached into the bag, could I crush myself with my thumb? Indubitably. I declined to test the theory, however. There are some places science cannot command me to follow. I looked in the bag again, trying to ignore the crawling feeling I was being watched.

However. Much though this amused, I felt obligated to point out that I did, in fact, seem to be trapped. The room had no doors. No windows. And, though the walls did look like they were made of cloth, it was probably thick cloth. And even if I did manage to burrow out, what then? Would I be back where I had come from? (A doubt struck me. Where had I come from? I shook it off.) My prison, infinite though it seemed, did not seem to have much variety to its contents. Me. The room. The bag.

I hefted the bag thoughtfully in my hand and looked up. There was one possible escape that occurred to me. Though it did have the disadvantage of being irrevocable, if I could throw the bag out through the ceiling, it might just cause enough damage to this worldset, whatever it was, to break me out of it. It seemed paradoxical enough to me that it might just do the trick.

I leaned back, and with a mighty heave, threw the bag as hard as I could upward. When it reached the place I judged the bag's opening was, everything went black.