Horror

He sat for hours typing away at the keys. But nothing sounded right. It has been that way for months now. It is past midnight, and with a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other, he stares blankly at the screen. Once again the words won’t come. The ideas flow out of him like the wine he is drinking, but nothing gets stuck. Nothing holds. The accolades for his classmates ring in his ears, but nothing comes to him. He can’t focus on one single task long enough to be man of the minute. It is always, did you hear about so-in-so, they published a novel… Or So-in-so is a lawyer now, and what are you doing these days?

Typing away. Wasting what time he has. Of course he is going to school, and has braved more in the 26 years he has spent on this earth than any of his well to do classmates. But what does that matter? The words don’t come. There are always good beginnings. Sometimes even good middles. Not to mention the terrific endings. But not for the same stories. Before he can get to a good middle, after a good beginning, he looses track and can’t go on. He is spent. Lost in the clicking of the keys. Waiting for the muse to strike again. Is it something he sees today, or will it be something he reads, that gets his creative juices flowing. Wasting time, pressing keys, burning out.

Thirty two separate stories that have been started, in some fashion, taking up space on his computer. He’s never going to get them done. Someone should. He can’t do it, the words get lost in translation from epiphany to pressing keys. He looks at his collection of books that would make any person envious, and he sees a wealth of creative genus. A creative genus that he now fears will be lost to him forever. Can he ever get out, out of the shadow of his classmates? Out of the shadow of his fractured view of the world. Out of the rants that flow at times and out of the hole that he digs himself when they don’t come any more. Will he ever stop looking at people as a collection of mindless idiots, but idiots that he wants some kind of validation from? Typing away.

When will he ever complete his work of art? It is in him to do so, he feels it. Sometimes it is at the edge of his mind. Twenty six, shit that is old. Nothing to show for it. Almost an Associates Degree from the local community college. A seven year old that doesn’t get to spend enough time with him, sleeping soundly in the other room. Nothing left for him to venture forth and do. That time has passed him. Is there any thing left? Typing away.

He finally starts to ink something that he thinks may be some good. It sounds good when he reads over it, and the words seem to flow for the time being. Everything is actually going good. Or that could be the wine. No, no, he is getting it right this time. Maybe there is something to this writing thing after all. He loves words, especially written words. To him they etch a movie in his mind, and take him away from the world in which he finds himself stuck in. Flying, words leap on to the screen at breakneck speed. His fingers would cramp and throb if they had time to realize the pressure in which he is spilling forth this new idea. This new concept that has enraged his passions for the night. It isn’t a rant, but maybe he can do something with it. Who knows? Typing away.

Then it stops, mid way through the second chapter. He looks of into space and tries to find the words to express the movie that is playing in his mind. But they aren’t there. He has lost them again. And this one was brilliant. He had it. Something that his self loathing and self deprecating sensibility hadn’t corrupted, at least not yet. There was hope. Maybe if he came back to in a few days, he could find his muse and start right back off where he started. Or if he was reread, or re-watch what ever it was that was on earlier, than maybe he could get back in the mind set.

It could work, you never know. Oh the ideas. The plots, the people, the histories, and the lives that is stored in his mind. No real way to get to them. He can’t express them the way they deserved. To him, they are real. It is like they are old friends. The details that he can spout off about anything in his work are like it was with him his whole life. Favorite colors of characters, how they would react to certain situations, which people they spend time with. Life stories are stored in his head. But they won’t come out. At least not all at once, and not in any form of coherent storyline. Here he goes again. Typing away.

He is doing it again, killing the story before it comes into bloom. Or some other horse crap. Poisoning it, more like it. The loathing is seeping through what was once a nice story about what ever he was writing. It’s gone. He looks into his bottle, turns it upside down, and throws it against the wall. Saves what he has, so that when ever he can do it, he can come back and fix it. Turns off the light and heads for bed. Dejected, drunk, and tired of not having anything. It will be all different tomorrow. Something else will suck tomorrow, and he will not have to worry about this little thing for a while. Oh well. Sleeping it off.

I am finding that it is hard to write an actual horror story. Short stories come pretty easy, but they don't come out as horror. I guess I am not really afraid on anything, so I can't channel that into something that is truly creepy. My stories that were supposed to come out as horror just come out strange. Everyone likes them, and can't get enough of them. But to me they just doesn't seem to have any real teeth. But i guess I am going to be my own worst critic.