I was reading some Poe before I drifted into my own version of hell. An eccentric man such as him who speaks of mesmerizing the dead and walling in the alive- he speaks of no unnatural phenomena but of the beasts that snarl inside us. Were they his demons?
His eccentricity, it lulled me from web to web.
I’d feel a slight heaviness as I cradled my head preciously on the pillow. I was afraid to fall asleep, lest I gnaw at my conscience and beg me to allow me to wake up. My nightmares are grotesque hunks of deformed truths I had come to accept in waking life; as I scampered and tried to ease myself into life-giving deadly sleep, flashes of a past horror would run along the length of my memory and rip its fabric apart. Back then, I remember waking thrilled and relieved.
This nightmare, I beamed inwardly that cloudy morn, will be another head sewn to my anthology of short stories; a contract is a contract.
My, writers can be eccentric.
I saw a dog guiltily soaking in the cool relief of a ditch flooded with weeds swimming through loose muddy water. I had been scouting for a place to lunch at, marching to and from and peeping into all gullies and streets in the afternoon sun when this half grown stray mutt caught my eye. I do not know whether it was my giraffe t-shirt that day or the doggie was really terrified of human presence (wearing giraffe tees?)