Persistent On Writing…Behind The Tombstone 016
…hints lead to discoveries and reveries
Ok. I'm gonna try this again. I simply can not ignore the signs that keep screaming at me to continue. Can't ignore anymore. Ignore.
Nuking my coffee, I scroll to random yet interesting video and find another surprise inspiration halfway through it stating to "keep on keeping on." This one from none other than the master of horror himself. I test my drink and close the microwave door. I clear the display but it keeps returning to 19 seconds. Blinking.
What would King think of that? And the dog? He just 'happened' to knock that book off the TV stand called On Writing? Or at least, like a fart, I blamed it on the dog. Just because I didn't see him get up and go to the living room doesn't mean he didn't. I mean, shit, sometimes I come to at my writing desk, suddenly realizing I've been staring at the wall for 99 minutes and not crafting any stories. Dazed.
Getting up after the last time that happened is how I found that fallen book. I didn’t hear it fall. Just wandered into the living room and almost died when I tripped over it. Smashed my toes into the couch foot and took a tumble onto it. Looked back to see that book there and then turned to my foot to see the nail on my ring toe bent up, crooked and bleeding. Another reason to limp a bit more. Limp.
Then there were the recent calls, all on that one day last week. Three different old friends I used to work with called me out of the blue to chat, separately. Nothing to do with one another but each individually motivated me to keep pressing on, forging my own path, following my heart. It's nice to have friends that check up on you when they somehow know you're down. I've been doing my best to hide it. Hide my distress and duress. Maybe that's just it. They observed I was hiding. Staying too quiet. Not my usual self offering my normal banter. Just quiet and withdrawn. Playing Koloss at minute 38.5 to help me focus. Volume up! Focus.
Don't forget there are all those "professional" jobs that I get selected to interview for, and then afterwards, crickets. I'm at the point of life when you're over-qualified and at the same time under-qualified. Aka, the fucking limbo zone of professional death and stagnation, at least it is in my field of industrial poison and bureaucracy. Simply another situation that requires me to focus my angst into a different area where I can progress via a pivot. It's either that or waste my time and mind on shit that's out of my hands. And I'm tired of wallowing. Tired.
So now that I slapped some peroxide on my toe and Band-Aids to keep the nail down, I'm not seeing that book on the floor. Must've booted it under the couch. Using my phone as a search light, I try to blow the dog hair out of the way so I can see. I really should clean more often. I find the book near the back of the couch. Looks like its cover is hung up and snagged in the black cambric. There's a nice gouge in it allowing the fabric to sag open. The book looks intact other than a slight bent corner courtesy of my foot. Retrieving the book I can see some papers hidden up inside the cambric. Trying not to breath in the dust bunnies or dog hair tumbleweeds I reach for them. Reach.
Woof! Woof! Woof! My goofy dog charges me full speed and like a baseball player, slides right into me like I was home plate. The momentum pushing me forward causing me to jam my hand up into the opening. "Yee ow!" I blurt out as my palm is impaled with something metal from this heirloom furniture. Yanking my hand back with unconscious speed, the newly discovered papers scattered across the floor. I lean up against the couch cradling my bleeding hand as I stare at the gilings fluttering through the sunbeam down around me. My considerate pooch climbs onto my lap and looks up at me with those sad puppy dog eyes. Sad.
"Looks like I better get more peroxide" I say as the bottle only lets out a couple drops onto my palm. Scrubbing my new tetanus puncture full of sudsy bubbles, I continue talking to myself. "What the hell are those papers doing in the bottom of the couch? Probably just customer warning labels, like what’s always all over furniture. But this was great Grandma’s couch. Doubt they had safety labels back then." Doubt.
Dried up and bandaged again, I make my way back to the living room. Walking over the papers I notice they definitely aren’t printed but look old and handwritten. I grab one and plop down on the couch trying to relax. Sometimes a day goes from turtle pace to crazy highway race with no exit ramps. That’s how it feels anyway. Letting the thrumming djent djent djent of Meshuggah’s Swarm wash over me, I sink back into the cushions. I feel down and around them with my good hand to see if there’s a gap for something to fall down through to the bottom. No gaps are found. The supports of the seat cushions are sewn directly into the sides. There’s no room for even a quarter to fall through. Fall.
With my dogs head in my lap, I sit still in the warm light and focus on his breathing. Soon enough, I lean my head back and mutter "Just a 'lil nap then I’ll inspect those papers. There’s no rush." Nap.
Where would you like this story to go? Yes, you. That’s right READER, comment a direction or your favorite character you want to see more of.
More of this unfolds …Behind The Tombstone. And please remember...
Mayhap you could start the series here at Bone Rattler...
“Take the day. Before the day takes you.” — Seymour Toa