The effort it takes to continue writing everyday is serious. For the last three years I have tried/dreamed/hoped to become a writer. I pick up the pen(metaphorical of course, what is this the 90s) and apply myself for a few weeks before giving up and moving onto the next hobby. I’m doing all that I can to make this hobby a habit. But sleep and life seriously gets in the way. I’m not bitter just enlightened. I am a writer.
The dark wood was heavily lacquered to keep wandering ketchup globs and beer rings from ruining the pine surface. He never really looked a lacquer, why didn’t they just make the table out of plastic if they planned to cover it in the stuff. Was lacquer even plastic, he didn’t know. With his head in his hands and a straw in hos mouth he sipped down his tenth glass of water. Even though he had given up the drink he still frequented his old favorite on the weekends. The memories of better times were too good to pass up. He wished that he had the self control to be drunk the willpower to have three drinks and call it good.; But he didn’t have the bank account to continue living that lie. He was depressed enough without the booze. Fitting right in with the regulars so lost in their cups that they couldn’t find the bottoms of them. He sat and chugged water like a man lost at sea would upon his rescue.
Conversations often came up about his habit but he shook them off like an itchy sweater. He was a man and men didn’t need conversation. They didn’t need friends, loved ones or families he was his own. At least thats the bullshit he told himself to feel better about being such an asshole to every person that entered his life. At least he kicked the drinking there was always that. No matter how much he self sabotaged he would never He squeezed his eyes shut tight to forget the sights of his past transgressions the fogged windows and the sideways rain.
The bartender was a slim brunette who was always nicer to him because he was the only sober one in the place. She smiled and asked him if he’d like another. He shook his head and pushed the stool back. “No, I’ll be heading off towards home Ashley, thanks.” He dug his hands deep into his pockets looking for the self respect he misplaced years ago and slumped out of the door.
The low black street lamps lit the street in almost perfect intervals, their spheres of warm yellow light provided an oasis of assumed saftey. He skirted their halo’s preferring to keep his path in the darkness. It was almost a game he played, blending into the surroundings. He had trailed people for hours doing this. He didn’t anymore, now he just ghosted home to his empty house. Her things still hung on the walls and he slept on the couch with their door shut tight. What were they even fighting about when he swerved into the median, he wanted to know so bad.
I almost didn’t write today because the #septwritingchallenge is over. But I felt really weird about missing a day after thirty days of writing. Originally I planned to expand some of September’s stories to 1000 words. I would do that today, but I took the day off work to help my girlfriend move. Long story short I ended up putting together IKEA furniture and moving shit the WHOLE day. I’m happy to help her but her new place has no internet! So I’m writing this on October 1, 2014 at 11:15PM.. I’ll post it tomorrow. Since I can’t pull up my blog posts from September to expand on, I’ll just have to create something new once again.
He grew very familiar with the ten by ten cell. Each of its two hundred and forty stone blocks were unique. Some were wavy and cracked others completely smoothed by years of anxious hands. The rusted gate that held the world at bay was locked tight. The guards would set a tray of food down every three days. Just enough they said to keep him alive and suffering. Everyone knew that he didn’t do it, but they all expected him to take the fall when the emperor was caught red handed. He had a disgraceful private life.
It was the worst day of his life when he had to see his face over all the monitors and billboard screens. When his own wife turned from him and sequestered the kids in their two story mansion on the royal estate. They were no doubt reimbursed and living the life with the money he earned for taking the blame. He constantly asked himself if it was worth it, two years ago he was convinced that his sacrifice would help his family in the long run, that what he did was what the state and his family’s house needed. But now, now that he had suffered the woes of isolation. He had been stripped of his accolades and treated like the scum that lives in the surrounding villages. Heavily armed guards sprayed him with water once a month. He could hardly remember the days where he would have a hot bath pulled for him every morning after sparring with the emperors finest warriors.
Taking the position of first general was known to be risky. The emperor after all could never be publicly condemned it would be blasphemy and the people would lose what little respect they had. He knew something like this would happen, but today he was ready. Two years of complacency brought him nothing, he played their game now they would play his. He heard the guard’s feet scrapping on the stone stairs that led down to his cell. The beams of his lamp sent shadows across his dark domain, he had grown fond of the darkness and the darkness had reciprocated. The goddess had appeared and granted him some of her power. The demons people referred to were about to rise once more.
I did it! One new story every day for 30 days. I’ve created a habit that I hope to continue. Enjoy my 30th and final entry for the #SeptWritingChallenge
He had always planned to start tomorrow. It wasn’t that it was easier to procrastinate, he lived a life like everyone else the small things stressed him out like the sheep. He referred to everybody as sheep accept for Eric. His neighbor Eric mowed his lawn and plowed the driveway without asking. He probably thought the old man was handicapped or too feeble to work. He allowed Eric to continue because it reinforced his old man image for the community. The sheep saw him as harmless, the white haired gentlemen that used a shiny black cane and lived on the corner of fourth and Jackson.
He hobbled down the hallway favoring his left leg. He ran both hands along the walls and shelves brushing small trails in the dust. He pushed the door to his study open and smiled. The operating table and its occupant sat waiting for him to quit procrastinating. He had always been interested in death. But not in the morbid way he was more interested in what happened after death, or as he liked to remind himself what could happen.
The man strapped to the table was stone cold dead, had been for almost a month. The old man hadn’t killed him he wasn’t a murder after all. He had preserved the corpse perfectly using the runic stones of his ancestors. The still sat in their places on the floor forming the complex diagram that warded of rot, bloat and the other nastiness of death. The tome his grandfather gave him sat sprawled open on the broad oak desk he thumbed through the pages and thought about beginning the ritual again. Like always he decided tomorrow would be better. He stretched his battle scarred arms over his head cracking his back and sighing a raspy sigh of relief. He walked over to the wet bar and poured himself a drink. It wasn’t his first of the day.
He slept soundly like he always did. With little to worry about he could sleep like a baby. Life was easier without careers and families he often felt regret at being so isolated but quickly buried it in his success. He was known in certain circles as a hero and in others as a villain. What was the point of living a life if people didn’t know about you. He was happy to have left a mark on civilization. The battles he fought went unnoticed but they were beyond important.
There was a tap at the window of the master bedroom followed by a few more. Tap, Tap, Tap.
He shot up adrenaline pumping an assassination no doubt. A rival necromacner after his families secrets. He drew the long silver sword from its shiny black cane scabbard and approached the window posed to strike. His would be assassin smiled back and pointed to the front door. It was Eric, he ran off towards the front door before the old man could shoo him away. Maybe it was time he began a second project?