Last Night I Didn’t Write

Last night I didn’t write
Too tired and uninspired
My heart, it wouldn’t start
My mind, it couldn’t find
The need to just proceed
Or state to concentrate
And so I had to go
To rest, which I thought best
But wept until I slept


Don’t go to bed with a dirty sink

Don’t sleep and leave a dirty sink
Don’t let those dishes languish
Or else you’ll wake to quite a stink
And break your fast with anguish

Creaky Stairs

The stairs creaked in protest, announcing his descent despite the gentle placement of his feet. He pulled a thin chain camouflaged among the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and a light bulb sizzled and popped to life. He ducked under the low ceilings, sneakers crunching over the uneven dirt and gravel as he picked his way to the other end of the basement. Really it was more like an extra tall crawl space than a short basement.  The dirt floor was a turn-off to most, but to him the lack of finish was an opportunity; an incomplete story he could finish however he wanted.

He reached his destination before too long, a plank mounted over the field stone wall covered with even rows of crystal knobs. He grasped one which had a clouded, dusky hue and twisted it loose. Nonchalantly he tossed it into the corner with its predecessors, the first occupants of a growing mass grave.

Muttering to himself, he fished around in a cardboard box, its sides limp and pliable with age and moisture. At last he sighed, finding a suitable candidate. With a patience borne of repetition and defeat, he screwed the sparkling crystal into the empty space, completing the pattern and relieving some of his anxiety.

He returned to the traitorous steps, vowing once more to end their treachery, knowing he never would. There were so many other wrongs to right. And besides, he loved his eclectic, outdated little cottage at least as much as he hated it.

Sprawled across the kitchen table were a tangled mess of thick wires protruding like an abstract sculpture of spaghetti spilling from a box pierced by an outdated knife switch.  

“So sorry for the interruption. Let’s try again, shall we?”

The man seated at the head of the table coughed and whimpered feebly in reply. His head hung limply against the restraints, eyes rolled back. A faint whiff of smoke rose from beneath the metal plate wired to his head.

The host threw the switch.

The lights flickered…

…then went out.