Sometimes I get gripped by what feels like a manic desire to sit down and write, just like the desire to purge my closet of clothes that I don't wear anymore (they aren't taking up an unreasonable amount of space; I don't like the thought of them being in there if they're not being worn), or the need to suddenly throw open all the drawers of our bathroom cabinet and organize (top drawer, daily medications and products; second drawer, hair care; third drawer, travel bottles; last drawer, pads and tampons), or the urge to start meal planning for the entire week (usually can only make it to Wednesday; Thursday, if we're feeling really ambitious). I tell myself that writing is cathartic, that I have a strong ability to get my thoughts across in written words more easily than if I'm speaking (which isn't always the case; I am very eloquent in the moment, particularly when I am speaking passionately, but when I have to repeat those thoughts later on, it seems like the message loses its verve), and that what I think is worth writing down, but it always seems like I spend more time rereading what I've written and then changing it because I think whoever else might read it (someone who isn't me) might think that I'm trying too hard to create a unique style, or to grab with a particularly attention-seeking opener, and that just feels downright cringy. The goal isn't to wow, it's to tell.
Why do I care about telling? Who am I telling? More accurately, who am I trying to tell? Everyone thinks that they're a writer, and maybe they are, because anyone can sit down and write words, particularly if they're interested in that spark of wow. But how do writers sustain that manic vibe, that commitment to sealing their words indefinitely in a space that seems so determined and concrete, but can be changed in a second?
I change in a second, for sure. One second I get gripped by the sudden (and often random desire) to throw open my closet door, letting the blast of cold air from the thin walls sweep into the room, and methodically finger through my wardrobe to find clothes to purge; and the next day, the pile of laundry in the closet basket that never seems very substantial ends up overtaking the small space, and it's like I never organized in there at all? Where is the consistency, there? Where is the consistency in feeling a burning desire to write something life-changing, and then never seeing anything actually get off the ground?
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"Cat, can you make me breakfast?" Joe shuffles in with his hood up, the curly tuft of hair that Cat calls his rhino horn sticking out on top. He asks even though she makes it all the time anyway, because often he rolls out of bed and basically rolls into the home office, and when she isn't home he either forgets to eat breakfast, or eats a bagel and that's it. He asks her in that tone of voice that is both plaintive and confident, like he asks just so he can hear her say she will, even though he already knows the answer. Not needy, but more of a confirmation that she will take care of it, that he feels taken care of in that moment; it grounds him.
"I was going to make eggs and bagel, do you want?" She has already pulled out the bagels and is starting to slice them. When she turns her head, he's already in the office, so she repeats the question, and then gives a waiting period of 10 seconds, and she knows her question still hasn't fully registered.
"Uhhh," is the response, with more silence. "I don't know about egg, maybe just a bagel is fine."
"I'm making eggs, so do you want them?"
"Sure, thank you." He slides in his headphones. Cat flips the burner on, cracks the eggs in the pan, and puts the first bagel in the toaster. She never toasts Joe's bagel first; he often has a meeting right when he makes his way into the office (camera off, of course, with that bed head), so they rarely ever eat at the same time during the week. They are never usually together at breakfast time during the week anyway, but after the medical leave started, Cat took to making different (simple) breakfast spreads like she would do on the weekends: egg and cheese sandwiches, french toast, fried eggs, sausage or hash browns, always a piece of fruit. Now that her appetite has returned, she realizes again how much she enjoys breakfast; it's her favorite meal of the day, not because she wants to have a huge carb-crunching, starch-induced, sleeping pill of a meal, but because it feels successful. A good breakfast does not in any way always translate to a good-feeling day, but it does mean that she can spend the time preparing, eating, and cleaning, and not feel enclosed by the parameters that were choking her.
About the Creator
The Blue Ridge Stalker
Tom had left the Ford down the way, its spark plugs finally exhausted and no mechanics for a dozen miles back through the foothills to Strossburg. No matter, he had worn his boots—almost as if he planned for this to happen. The puzzle he sought to solve emanated from the woods clinging to the slopes above; the valley behind held no mysteries.
By Stephen A. Roddewig4 days ago in Fiction
The Inferno Elixir: A Legacy of Blood
1. The Sinister Stillness of the Village My grandfather had always been an enigmatic man, but in the last three years, his eccentricity had crossed into something far more unsettling. He lived alone in a secluded house far from the city’s clamor, tucked away in a village perpetually choked by mist. We assumed he was merely grieving the loss of my grandmother and his lifelong friend, but his gaze hid something deeper than sorrow—a secret that was slowly devouring his soul. During my last visit, I was struck by the sight of his refrigerator; it was grotesquely overstuffed with heaps of raw meat. He claimed with a cold detachment that it was for the poor, but his face betrayed the lie. Even more disturbing was the reinforced steel door he had installed in the basement, from which a foul stench seeped through the cracks—a smell like a carcass that refused to stay buried. 2. A Descent into the Abyss Late that night, I took advantage of my grandfather’s heavy sleep. With trembling fingers, I pilfered a modern, sophisticated key from his cabinet. I descended the decaying stairs into the basement, my flashlight cutting through the oppressive gloom. The air there didn't just smell of rot; it smelled like a slaughterhouse. Dry bloodstains smeared the walls, and in the corners lay bleached-white human skeletons. I approached the reinforced room and peered through a tiny peephole. The blood froze in my veins. A gaunt creature, its bones protruding obscenely from its skin, stood there. Its hair was so long it trailed behind it like a shroud. It moved on all fours with a demonic fluidity. Suddenly, its eyes—completely white—locked onto the hole. It wasn't looking at me; it was scenting me. 3. The Bitter Truth Before I could flee, I felt the sharp sting of a needle in my neck. The world dissolved into darkness. I awoke inside a hermetically sealed glass chamber. My grandfather stood on the other side of the glass, weeping bitterly as he recounted the catastrophe: > "Three years ago, your grandmother was on the brink of death. A stranger with non-human features knocked on my door and gave me a dark red elixir, claiming it was the salvation. I injected her, but she transformed into this ravenous monster. I killed my oldest friend and fed him to her just to protect her secret. I love her, Alex, and I cannot let you leave to expose the truth of her 'death' to the world." > 4. The Banquet of Blood The glass barrier began to rise slowly, and the monstrosity crouched, ready to pounce. Suddenly, a scream pierced the silence. My younger brother, Thomas, had followed me. With a heavy blow from a sharp tool, he struck our grandfather, sending him sprawling into the room. In a moment of primal madness, the creature lunged at my grandfather, tearing into his flesh with unspeakable ferocity. Thomas and I fled, the screams echoing behind us, until the police arrived and ended the nightmare with a hail of bullets into the body of what was once my grandmother. 5. The Vicious Cycle A year has passed since that night, and I thought I had survived. But fate plays a cruel game. It is now the anniversary of my grandfather’s death, and my brother Thomas is wasting away from a rare, terminal illness. Last night, amidst the darkness, a stranger knocked on my door—matching the exact description my grandfather once gave. He placed a small box in my hand containing a vial of dark red liquid and hissed into my ear: "This is the only cure for your brother." The stranger vanished as if he never existed. I analyzed the liquid in a lab, and the results were bone-chilling: "A substance extracted from an unknown biological entity, non-existent in any natural record." I hold the vial in my hand now, looking at my pale brother, hearing the echo of my grandfather’s voice in my head. Do I repeat the tragedy? Do I begin a new massacre in the name of love? The elixir is before me, and hell is waiting just behind the door. Would you like me to create a "Book Cover" style description for this story, or perhaps suggest a sequel?
By Mayar Younes7 days ago in Fiction
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