Every so often I get bored and write a poem. It isn’t a great poem and in no way will I ever compare what I wrote to Elliot or Keats. I just write to entertain myself. Maybe not the best way to entertain myself but if it gets the creative juices flowing, so be it. Before you jump to conclusions, I am not depressed nor am I looking to off myself. With that being said, enjoy!
I haven’t posted any of my writing lately. This story I am about to share is titled, “broken”. It is a story about a mother, her husband, and her daughter. Lauren fears her husband is cheating on her. Our story begins with the mother in the basement. She is busy humming along to showtunes while her daughter is woken up by the noises and the odd sounds filling the room.
I mentioned in previous blog (read it here) that I am in the middle of writing an epic four story collaboration. The stories will intertwine with each other but will be a story all their own. I am going to share with you a little section of one of the stories I am currently in the process of writing. This story, “The Mortuary“, is about a child killer & sexual predator. I’ve written some pretty eff’ed up stuff before but this one I think is pushing it. It’s a good story. It’s not even close to be finished but I have it all planned out. At least I have the ending planned out. The middle is going to be the tricky part. Read it below.
I am going to share something personal with you. I enjoy writing and have been writing for years. I can remember writing a story titled, Zombietown in third grade. I still have the story and still look at it every so often. That is the earliest documented story I have. It’s probably the moment I knew that I wanted to write. While I am not a famous writer or published, I still write. I have shared a few stories with you on here. I hope that you’ve read them or if not all of them, read at least one of them. My blog is all about me. I share a lot of information about my life. I am pretty open about it all. I am now going to share with you my newest challenge I am putting myself up against. It is all about writing. I said I wanted to write more this year and I will. I write everyday at work.
Had a strange dream just now. I just woke up and figured i better write it down before i forget it. Sorry if I skip around some. I’ts just after 6am and I literally just woke up and had to write this down. This is too good to not forget.
I had a board game of ‘The Human Centipede’ I wanted him to sign. We had a book. I don’t recall what book, or if it was ever mentioned. We (I say we cause there was four of us together) also had a large, red-sleeved dictionary too. We were planning on getting it all signed by horror master, Stephen King. We’re running around a park for no reason. I know it was a park cause of the trees and a statue. The four of us (There was four of us. I just don’t and can’t recall who the fourth was) were going crazy. I just remember us running around and screaming, “we’re gonna miss him!” We arrive at the building. He’s on the stage. He looks skinny. A little under weight. Possibly, cancer stricken with a virus eating away at him. While we are all excited to see him, it’s not him. I mean, it was Stephen King but he looked more like R.L. Stine. That is, if RL Stine was a buck-o-one and cancer stricken with a virus eating away at him. He is sitting there. A pen in his left hand. The sleeves on his black sweater are pushed up, revealing his arms. His arms are tiny and they are hairy. Not the whole arm. It was just centered on his wrist. From where I was sitting, his arms looked like they had tattoos but I can’t be positive. He has glasses that seem to be rolling off his nose. Never saw him push them up but as much as they would slide off his nose, they would magically go back to normal.
He doesn’t look very happy. You wouldn’t be either if you saw the kind of people in the crowd. It was full of no-faced people, the four of us, people who are there just to be there, and some stereo-typical redneck people. These rednecks were in three groups.
- Group One: He was a gluttonous kid. He sang rhymes about my twig and berries, only minus the twig. Each verse to this rhyme resulted in me getting a knee to the groin. I was not liking this kid and was really getting tired of him.
- Group Two: These were twin boys screaming about there cousin who starred in some movie with cousin, Lloyle. All they did was shout and scream. They egged on the groin-kicking kid at times.
- Group Three: Not a group but another single redneck yokel. He was just there. Don’t recall him saying anything. I just remember that I was more concerned about trying to find out where I knew him from. He had thus face that looked like a movie star. Maybe not a movie star but a character from a movie. Never did figure out who he was.
So, we are all is building. It reminded me of my days in grade school when we would all pile in the gym to see a presentation. The whole ambiance of the building really did make me feel like I was 11 again. We’re sitting on the ground. Other people are standing. We are sitting though. We could stand. Not sure why we are sitting. Most people are standing. Actually, I think everyone but us were standing. No matter. We are in the front. We have the best seats in the house. There is no reason Stephen King will miss us. He’ll wave us up and we will leave with autographed keepsakes. Me and my ‘human centipede’ board game, my brother with a book, and my little sister be the only person with a signed copy of a, red-sleeved, Merriam-Webster Dictionary. He waves us up. Even him waving us to the stage looks like a boring job. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to sign useless crap – like novels, magazines, or dictionaries. He sits in a chair. He is hidden behind an over-sized desk. Nothing on the desk but a pen holder. Standing next to him and the desk is a lady. She has no face, no name, and no reason being there except to be there.
My sister is waved up. We all were but we just sent her with everything. She is at the stage. Remember the groin-kicking fat kid? Well, he grabs me and starts another verse about kicking me in the balls. I am fed up at this point and I take my fist and punch him in the throat. I keep it there pushing harder and harder. I watch as his eyes begin to pop out. I say something witty to him. I know it was witty cause all good revenge and payback scenarios have the protagonist say one. The other yokels look at me but say nothing.
My sister is at stage. She hands him the dictionary. He screams about something and says he doesn’t do autographs. The crowd gasps and he says something else but couldn’t make it out. He sounded angry though. Next thing I know, I am up. I am back in my bed with no signed dictionary, there is no ‘human centipede’ board game, and my balls don’t hurt. The only thing going on was I had a few drinks before bed and nature was calling that very moment.
You know. Come to think of it, my description of him,
He looks skinny. A little under weight. Possibly, cancer stricken with a virus eating away at him. While we are all excited to see him, it’s not him. I mean, it was Stephen King but he looked more like R.L. Stine. That is, if RL Stine was a buck-o-one and cancer stricken with a virus eating away at him. He is sitting there. A pen in his left hand. The sleeves on his black sweater are pushed up, revealing his arms. His arms are tiny and they are hairy. Not the whole arm. It was just centered on his wrist. From where I was sitting, his arms looked like they had tattoos but I can’t be positive. He has glasses that seem to be rolling off his nose. Never saw him push them up but as much as they would slide off his nose, they would magically go back to normal.
sounds more like Steve Jobs. Now that I am awake, I have no clue who I met in my dream.