Home Alone In My Chair

I am home alone in my chair in the dark
The clock strikes twelve and I wonder where the time has gone.
I decide to go to bed, and so I begin to get up
But to my surprise I hear a knocking at my door.
 
I decide to ignore it and continue onto bed
Who in their right mind comes knocking at midnight?
So I climb the stairs as quietly as I can
But creaking sounds emerge from the wood.
 
I walk down the hall and gently open my room door
And to my surprise I still hear the knocking.
I walk across the floor and reach my bed
And climb in between the sheets to finally get some sleep.
 
I slowly fall deep into a slumber
Falling deeper and deeper until I am about to begin a dream.
But then there is a slam, and so I spring upright in fear
For someone has entered the front door in a wild furry.
 
I jump out of bed half disoriented and grab my gun
This crazy person has got to get out now!
I slowly creep towards the door and slip out of my room.
I move down the hall with Remington rifle.
 
I hear creaking footsteps coming up the stairs
Slowly, I hear them enclosing with my own.
I’ve got him now; he won’t even know what had hit him
And so I round the corner to face the intruder.
 
A loud bang rings through the house
And a loud thumping down the stairs falls afterwards.
I know blood is everywhere, splattered all the way down the stairs
It will be a huge mess to clean up in the morning.
 
I decide to call for help to get this situation over with
But I hear nothing; I see nothing from the darkness
I smell nothing, I taste nothing
But I do feel something.
 
I feel liquid and it is warm and thick
I notice my eyes are closed and I look at what had become.
Blood, it was everywhere like I had expected
But what I didn’t was a hole through my chest.
 
The blood gushed out from my heart and through my chest
I laid there at the bottom of the stairs unable to move.
I was out of breath and desperately trying to figure out how to find more.
I saw my eyes begin to close as my attacker walked down the stairs.
 
He walked down the stairs and up to the front door.
He had grabbed my gun just in case I wasn’t gone yet
But I was completely unable to breathe even one breath.
Then he opened the door and turned back towards me and made a noise like the clock.
 
I am home alone in my chair in the dark
The clock strikes twelve and I wonder where the time has gone.
I decide to go to bed, and so I begin to get up
But to my surprise I hear a knocking at my door.
 

Killer in the Kitchen

It was a beautiful spring morning. The sun’s warming light gently entered the windows of the apartment in between the thick green leaves that sprung after fall.

“Come here you sneaky bastard!”

Inside the apartment stood a woman wearing a flowery pattern covered sundress. She had long curly black hair that fell gently across her deep olive complexion. Her almond shaped eyes glared down to the floor where she stood in disgust.

“Yeah, you filthy piece of crap! I’m gonna get you.”

An onlooker peering in through the windows wouldn’t be able to see where the victim laid due to the odd angle in which the window sill was placed, and even if an onlooker could see the body there was still no onlooker to be found.

“How do you like that?!”

The woman stomped and kicked the ground where the body laid and shot a disturbing grin when the body appeared to be fully mutilated.

“Ha ha ha—ahh, I told you that I was gonna get you.”

The woman grabbed some paper towels to pick up the mutilated body parts off of her kitchen floor, and she was proud of herself for being able to kill something on her own. She then opened the lid to her tall kitchen trash can and dumped the bloodied garbage in. She washed her hands, dried them on the appropriate non-decorated hand towels and then went on with her morning cooking, completely forgetting about the spider she just killed.

Writer’s Block

There I am sitting in front of my computer with my finger tips resting along the familiar home row keys. It’s three in the morning and my eyes are blood-shot red from a mix of frustration and dreadful exhaustion. For a moment the world has stopped but the minute hand on the clock is swirling around and passing the twelve numbers at record speed. My eyes continue to glare at the dimly lit computer screen and I can, ever so slightly, feel the ambient light burn into my retinas. Clearly I’m not procrastinating. I would love to be able to type at least a few words on the laptop that was probably over heating so badly that my soft bedding would eventually catch fire, but instead I was peering into the blinking cursor hoping that eventually something would just magically appear.

Having writer’s block is probably the worst thing for someone to experience. Sitting there and waiting for something to fall out of your head is the equivalent of trying to watch an ice cube melt in the snow. It isn’t impossible, but it’s surely something that isn’t easily done. It’s a quiet torture that constricts the creative flow of the writing process and the unseen evil creeping up inside you that holds back any form of artistic expression, so cruel in fact that it doesn’t even leave you with your thoughts.

And here I am pleading with Apollo, praying to St. Francis de Sales, and waiting for help from all the muses and Ecanus with my finger tips still resting on the computer’s familiar home row keys. I want this writer’s block to go away so that I can live again, but for now all I can do is sit here and breathe.