Inspiration

He sat in the broken down chair staring at the computer screen. Blank. Couldn't see it. Couldn't touch it. The story was lifeless and adrift in the sea of His mind. He needed inspiration. A little poke here, a little prod there. Just something to get the ball rolling. It had worked before.

Sitting forward, He propped an elbow on the table. The cracked wood had softened on the edges from constant meetings with His hands. Not the only thing soft. A man's mind goes soft. Squishy and a little moldy on the inside. Bread left in the cupboard too long.

An idea, that was what He needed. Another plot to the pages of His next bestseller. The past seven had been successful and addictive. Addictive for Him as well. Sometimes the steps one takes toward a goal get a little off. Not much usually, but a little.

Standing with a chorus of pops from aching joints, He crossed to the window. The sky had taken on a pleasant blush in the west. What did it have to be embarrassed about? It wasn't the one sitting there with a mind as blank as the page. He sighed. Had to get out of the house. Find some…He smiled. …inspiration.

The wooden floor of the flat groaned in agony when He strode to the door. There had been many groans of agony lately. Some His and some not. His coat slid warmly up His arms and buttoned in front. Only three buttons now. Used to be four. Lost like so many other things.

The door opened with a slick pop and a foot went over the threshold. He paused scanned the room for ghosts before pulling it shut behind Him. Couldn't be too careful. The dead don't always leave. Sometimes they make friends with the unexorcised demons every heart holds.

The floor in the hall made the sound of silence. A subdued, buzzing sound. The roar that seemed inside your head even when away from the city. No such thing as silence. Not here. Nobody has silence. He took the main stairway to the ground floor and nodded to the doorman. Frank always looked the other way when He did research. When He needed a little inspiration. Always got tipped well for it. Best to tip the ones who help you help yourself. He wrote a book and got paid. It was money spent on research.

The night was dense with city noise. That wordless scream the big city holds. Never says anything of use. Just screams. He liked the screaming. It sounded real in a plastic-coated world. Sometimes the plastic was useful though. Kept things clean.

His feet tracked the sidewalk until it turned into an alley. Dark alleys and putrid sights. That was the city. All cities have those smells. Sometimes a few of the scents got taken away. No one noticed. Lack of one in the garden of many. No one smelled the change.

Huddled figures clung to walls and shadows like ivy. Can't hide forever. Things need to be done. He had a story to write. Time to find some inspiration. So many alleys to choose from. Only one was right for His pages. This one was the chosen of the crop tonight.

A grizzled man with bottle-cap teeth stood and growled. Meaningless sounds in a noisy world. An invitation for dinner. He hadn't eaten yet and the down-trodden never had. Food was a strange thing. Fill up and release. Like breathing. Inhale without thinking and exhale in relief. Glad to be alive for a few more minutes.

A long walk back through the streets. Many trudging through a fog of life. Not looking for meaning, just existing. It was sad. No need to continue if there was no mountain to climb. Why seek the high ground in a swamp? They walked on. The dark eyes passed unseen in the night.

There the building rose like fire. Almost to dinner. A sidelong glance at Him by the stench was unnoticed. A few bills passed from His hand to Frank's. Plans floated half-finished in a misty mind. He extracted a key from the lock and the door swung open.

A few more groans from the wood as He shooed a bit of rubbish toward the couch. He made himself at home on the plastic-covered seat. He squealed and sighed the sofa. Picking up the remote, he clicked the TV on. Sitting back he smiled his silent contentment.

He had to check on dinner. The oven was set to three hundred degrees and utensils sat at the ready. Nice, precise rows. Unlike the mess of invention. Not at all like the carnage of inspiration. A knife, a cleaver, a few sharp sticks. The sticks were nice but wood leaves splinters. Blood came from splinters and His blood stayed in His veins.

The sticks were set aside. A mirrored, coolness sat sharp and watchful on one edge of the table. The knife? It gave a deep wound, always neat and tidy. He stood for a moment staring back and forth between the knife and the cleaver. Cleavers were harsh and sudden. A fleet deer-like whack and it was over.

He chose the knife for its poetry and left the kitchen. No lights on in the living room. A head lay back on the couch and avid eyes darted back and forth. Figures moved in comedy and he smiled. Gaunt facial skin stretched over sharp, crows bones.

He stepped up behind the couch and sighed. The knife hovered bird-like over the refuse. Then a tiny spot of blood. A sharp indrawn breath brought a new idea to mind. Slipping an arm around the whimpering thing, He drove the blade into a collar bone and then behind it. A shudder went through Him as another idea came to call for rations.

Ideas coursed through heated veins as the blade unsheathed itself. It dived for heart through the throat. Though it failed to reach it's goal, the crimson fountain was a small consolation. He gurgled, words drowning in the flood. The knife twisted and smiled into screaming eyes. The jerks and shudders faded slowly and silence took over.

He walked to the kitchen and retrieved paper towels. Brash and stodgy, they licked the blood from His fingers. The tired, used disposables retreated to the trash bin. The pans spoke in clear, ringing voices as He filled them with delectable fare.

Some things are best cooked at low temperatures. Later, He sat in his chair at the head of the table and considered the silence. Silence is found only in death. He sighed. No amount of deaths would make His life quiet.

Sweet and undercooked meat, sat like a comforting hand in His stomach. The page in front of Him filled with color and voices. Dark, moonless sky sang deeply through the window. He smiled as His fingers danced along the keyboard. All He had needed was a little poke here, a little prod there. Inspiration.

Back to: Vol 1, Issue 3