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    Home » 2014 » December » 5 » A Writer Thinking/Twisted "To An Empty Page"
    8:58 PM
    A Writer Thinking/Twisted "To An Empty Page"

        The writer sat at home, wondering what they should do. They were sitting in front of the computer, trying to write some more stories, but they had realized that they didn’t have that much they really wanted to write about.

        Of course, being congested and tired wasn’t helpful at all. It just slowed them down even more. Instead of writing during the past two or three days, they had been sleeping or wasting time on other parts of the internet. They sighed to themselves as they put a cough drop in their mouth. What kinds of things do I have around my room to write of?

        They decided they didn’t have anything that was too exciting. They had their watch and glasses next to them by the computer, trash, a dollar, a glass of water, a piece of paper with a list of things they needed to do, a “dancing flower” as it’s called that is taken apart, and various office supplies.

        Well, I could write about Echo for the second time with the Echo Sonnet I’ve come to love. Maybe I can create a different environment around it? A different take on it? They continued sucking on the honey cough drop, reaching for their cup of water. Yeah, I suppose that’ll work. I just need to look up the sonnet now and figure out how I want to approach it.

        But maybe I’ll attempt it after dinner and some homework, they thought, feeling hungry and realizing they had things other than writing they had to do for tomorrow. They let out a breath through their nose and started to get up. Fine Life, you win! I’ll do the important crap first.

     

     

        They all call me mental and think I’m insane, a man thought, staring deep into his own eyes in the mirror. He shook his head. I’m not crazy, I just think differently than others.

        He sighed and slumped down further on the stool he was sitting on in his bedroom, looking into the mirrors on his closet door. “Wow, that sounded even lamer than I thought,”

        “Ought,” a voice repeated back, sounded like his own but softer. His head should up and he stared into the mirror as he spoke this time, being more formal than usual to see if that would change the effect somehow.

        “How from emptiness can I make a start?”

        “Start,” the voice echoed back, staring at him blankly from the other side of the mirror as if bored already. Maybe I can make sense of what they’re repeating if I can interpret their body language…

        “And starting, must I master joy or grief?” he asked slowly and cautiously.

        The alternate him in the mirror stared at him, something swimming in the depths of his eyes. “Grief.”

        The man nodded as if that made sense. “But is there consolation in the heart?”

        The mirror version of him nodded now. “Art.” The man considered this a moment. Do they mean I must do something artsy to find any consolation?

        “Oh cold repriece, where’s natural relief?” The man started wondering why he was talking in a strange way.

        The him in the mirror simply smiled and said, “Leaf.” This time, the man had no idea what to make of this.

        “Leaf blooms, burns red before delighted eyes.” What am I saying? the man wondered. Is this referring to the changing of the seasons, the cycle of life and death in nature?

        “Dies,” replied the voice, staring at him. The leaf has died.

    “Here beauty makes of dying, ecstasy.” The leaf is beautiful and its death, in turn, makes death look beautiful. Okay, I got it.

    “See.” The other version of him said it as a statement, looking smug with themselves. During this conversation, the two sat taller and were closer to the mirror than at the beginning, as if they were holding a private conversation.

    “Yet what’s the end of our life’s long disease?”

    “Ease.” Ease come with death.

    “If death is not, who is my enemy?” I understand what I’m saying, but why?

    “Me.” Well, you are your own worst enemy.

    “Then are you glad that I must end in sleep?” Sleep meaning death here I suppose.

    “Leap.” I should leap rather than sleep?

    “I’d leap into the dark if dark were true.” What’s dark referring to here?

    “True.” There is darkness. But what is dark?

    “And in that night would you rejoice or weep?” Ah, dark must be for night. Maybe the night I die.

    “Weep.”

    “What contradiction makes you take this view?”

    “You.” Since when was I a contradiction?

    “I feel your calling leads me where I go.” The man truly felt in his soul he had to be united with this voice, this other him. As he spoke these words, he stood and stepped closer to the mirror. Do I need to go through this mirror?

    “Go.” They are telling me to go to them.

    “But whether happiness is there, you know.” These are the last words the man spoke as he started to step through the mirror, and the last he would ever breathe.

    The alternate him looked at him sadly. “No.” Then he quickly transformed into a terrible looking demon and destroyed the mirror with him partially inside. The man screamed and writhed on the ground, covered with glass shards and the parts of him that were in the mirror bitten off and bleeding out excessively.

    The person he lived with came running in the room quickly, but the door had been locked. By the time they got in, they saw him on the ground. To them, they say everything intact, it just looked like he broke the mirror and rolled in the glass.

    “Poor guy… Must have really been tormented to do this…” The person left the room to call 911 and see what they should do. But from the other side of the now broken mirror, the demon licked its lips. “That was a good meal,” it rumbled out, making a garbled sounding words come from its mouth. “But onto the next one.”

    A depressed woman a country away from this incident sat on the floor in front of her floor length mirror in her bathroom crying. She cried and cried. She was staring at herself in the mirror when she said to herself, “God, am I horrible looking right now or what?”

    Her image in the mirror seemed to shift slightly and replied with, “What?”

    The woman jumped back in shock, hitting the cabinets behind her. “Am I crazy or not?” she questioned.

    The mirror image of her smiled. “Not.”

    The woman smiled back and moved closer to the mirror. She felt words come to her head so she spoke them aloud, only the demon knowing this would be leading to her demise.

    “How from emptiness can I make a start?”

    Her alternate image stared at her. “Start.”

    This is how the demon feeds, and over and over again it happens. What allows it to consume them begins here, when you start speaking with it.

    Category: Short Stories | Views: 66 | Added by: Wolf | Tags: poem story, nanowrimo | Rating: 0.0/0
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