Digesting Words

Heavy rain continues to pour, creating red puddles of goo. I don’t have another name for it. It has the consistency of blood, but I’m unwilling to investigate.

Instead, I choose to ignore what’s happening out there and focus on the interior of my home. Read a book, drink some tea, avoid the red gelatinous substance falling from above. All I wanted today was to go grocery shopping, perhaps meet friends at the pub for a pint. However, once the first splat fell from a cloudless sky to land upon my head, and dot the landscape like a Jackson Pollock painting, I turned around and went back inside. To be honest there is work to be done, instead of finding excuses and procrastinating.

It's true, ask anyone who knows me. I would rather ignore a situation then deal with it. So far this has worked out fine for me. I can’t say what happened next was unexpected, given my wild bursts of imagination thrust upon me since I was but a wee lad. However, imagination has been in short supply as of late.

That is until the knock. With trepidation, I foolishly open the door, which upon a crack given a crevasse is created. Large enough for a motorized contraption driven by a polychromatic man to enter. I should say alien, it could be female but judging from the copious amounts of hair garnishing the upper lip I’ll say man. Either way this.. they... them…I’ll stick with ’he.’ This Poikilothermic looking creature bursts into my home, hops out of his vehicle, smiles and bows so low his reptilian cranium touch's the floor.

"Good day kind sir, so good of you to allow me access into your humble abode. Frightful weather out there." He speaks in perfect English.

Gripping the bumper of his 'car' he tugs then proceeds to fold it up like a blanket. Tucking the package into a long shiny overcoat. His lizard-like eyes blink twice as he glances around.

"Well, I am famished old boy, what say we have a luncheon while we wait out the storm."

"Sorry." I mumble. "Cupboards bare."

"Not to worry." Reaching into his coat, he withdraws a roast chicken on a platter, followed by an accompaniment of root vegetables and breads. "My treat."

Before I can say. 'What the mother goose is happening.' My entire dining set magically appears upon the table.

“Look, I believe you have the wrong house, or planet. If you would be so kind as to exit these premises it would be greatly appreciated.”

“No, this is the correct address, I came to see you Jason.”

“You know my name?”

“Of course, we have been watching you for a while now and find you quite stimulating.”

“I’ve been called many things, stimulating is not one of them. Why are you here?”

“Why to wipe away that ever spreading web of writers block, entangling your creative ideas.

It’s true, how he knew that fact is beyond me, but I cannot deny it. I have been stumped for weeks. I blame it on the novel I am trying to finish while still maintaining a presence on a writing forum, that I currently dabble in. Honestly, my brain is not equipped for this.

Wishing to Vocal my concern, I ask. “How are you going to help?”

“Tut, tut young man, I am here to enlighten and inspire.”

Now I know something is up, as I am no longer in the ‘young’ category of life, but I am flattered.

“How….?’ Before finishing my sentence, I watch him devour the entire chicken in one gulp then proceed to inhale the remaining food.

“Hey, I thought that was for both of us.” I say with astonishment and gurgling tummy.

He smiles. “I shall digest the food, my friend while you shall digest literature.”

With that, he again reaches into his trench coat, producing hard cover books and begins flinging them in my direction. I watch in fascination and horror as these novels slam into my belly and disappear as if they fell into a vat of jelly with a resounding squish that follows each book.

His voice cries out with every toss. “Try a taste of Twain, a Hemmingway ham, a Will Rogers roast, and of course a Flan Lebowitz.”

My stomach expands with each book added, until It can take no more. “Stop.” I cry. “My belly is full.”

“Of course, now use that brain of yours to absorb the tales.” He laughs.

Like a dam bursting over, words flood my mind with each quote they wrote, each line a fine wine, I feel dazed with every phrase. Soon I hungered for more.

Feed me Seymour. Feed me.

I nibble on Tolkien's Hobbit hors d’oeuvres, get Carrie-d away devouring Kings I-scream Sunday, and sip on a dry Fitzgerald, shaken not stirred. While dipping Christie mystery crackers in a bowl of Orwellian chowder. I then indulge in a Carol of Dickens Christmas cookies.

Soon, I’m fill with carbs of wisdom.

My stomach bubbles with the seltzer of wonderous authors as they curb my acidic bile of writing failure. In moments I am relieved by the belch of ideas exhumed upon waves of inspirational gas, from both ends.

Release from reality or what ever this is, I feel wholeheartedly better than I have in a long time. Stumbling to the window, bright light dissipates the dark shadows that once hid my tales. Fresh rain, not mysterious red globs fall from the heavens. Gone are the excuses I created that held me hostage. I am once more able to enter the world of writing.

My new companion smugly sits picking at his teeth. “Has my meal satisfied your needs?”

“It has indeed my friend. Thank you.”

“Remember, reading nourishes the soul of a writer.”

He leaves as he came, before disappearing he cries. “Except beauty magazines, they’re trash…”