Everyday life, like work, school, children, even Facebook can prevent us from writing. Whether it’s 1000 words or 10,000 words, writing something, anything is better than not doing it at all. So, when life gets in the way just remember – writers write.
Write something – doesn’t matter what it is. For example, after years of writing Erotica I had a chance to write a brief fantasy piece. I was told to write something under 500 words, a weird scenario, and that’s what I did.
For better or worse, here it is, because writers write!
"Fuck do you want?" Harold mumbled under his breath from his easy chair in the living room. She always had a knack for interrupting him when he was trying to relax.
"Where are you, Harold?" Mildred asked again from the kitchen.
"In the living room, dear. Just trying to relax and watch the ball game." Harold said something else under his breath, but it was incoherent. He went back to his game.
"Better come quick. I think we have a rat in the basement."
"Harold! I said there's a rat in the basement!"
"Cunt!" Harold said it loud enough for his wife to hear, but didn't care. His game was on and she had the audacity to interrupt him. Harold got up and went to the kitchen.
"Better take the flashlight from the drawer. I think the lights are out."
"Yes. Dear." Anything to shut the old bitch up. He intended to make this a quick job.
Harold opened the door to the basement. He felt the wall for the light switch, flicked it, but nothing happened. He held the flashlight, but it wasn't on yet, since he had enough light glowing from the kitchen. There were only about a dozen stairs to walk down.
"Okay, here I go, Mildred."
His wife didn't respond. Instead, she just watched him slowly descend the darkened staircase. He missed the huge grin spreading across her lips.
Harold made it down the first six or seven steps, with the flashlight in hand. Then it happened. He stepped down but nothing was there - no floor, no steps, nothing. Harold lost his balance and dropped about five or six feet. He landed in a pile of broken glass and wood, probably from the missing stairs.
Shards protruded from his face, with cuts all around his eyes and cheeks. He felt a burning sensation, like he was being clawed. One large piece of wood stuck out of his neck. The pain was unbearable. Harold screamed for help, but Mildred remained at the top the stairs. She could barely see him now, since it was so dark down in the basement. She almost wished she had another flashlight in the house.
Harold gripped the splintered piece of stairs with his bloody hand. He made the error of pulling the wood out of his neck. It was lodged in a major artery , perhaps his jugular. The blood began squirting out, almost comically. Harold screeched like a chick in a bad slasher movie, and Mildred began laughing out loud.
"You sound like a little bitch, Harold," taunted Mildred.
The blood kept streaming from his body until he lost all consciousness, which seemed like an eternity but was probably less than a minute. Soon, Harold was dead.
Mildred stood at the top of the stairs for a moment and pondered the situation.
"Rat problem solved." Mildred slammed the door to the basement.