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!
RAT PROBLEM
"Harold! HAROLD!"
"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."
No response.
"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.
