“I decided to kill him while eating a pork chop. As I sawed the meat into bite-sized pieces, I envisioned doing the same to him. I would use the rarely used butchers knife in the kitchen, the one he makes fun of me for purchasing. Comical in its size, almost like a prop from a horror movie.
“What are you going to use that thing for?”
Little did he know he would be the one that it would be used on….the maiden voyage of my knife, slicing through his flesh like the bow of a ship slicing through the waters of a smooth sea.
Would I be methodical in my cuts or haphazard and brutal, hacking away at his flesh, blood pooling around my feet as I drug the knife into his thighs, his torso.”
Well then. I feel better. I think I’ve been watching too much Dexter.
And now for the more pleasant, yet mundane writings……
I stood outside, watching the snow fall around me. The once giant flakes that fell, almost like a heavenly pillow fight, have become smaller and are making small ticking sounds as they bounce off my jacket. I am smoking, my cigarette held in my right hand and a can of energy drink held in my left. I alternate between taking puffs and sipping from my drink. With each swallow, I can feel my heart rate pick up a little bit. I don’t know why I’m drinking this crap….I’m not too fond of the taste, especially when it’s warm, which mine is. Plus, this is my third can today. Thanks to the B vitamins and other “natural energy supplements” my pee has turned a radioactive yellow and makes me think that this is what Homer Simpson’s pee must look like. Every cell in my body must be screaming at me right now.
I take one last drag off the cigarette and it burns my fingers as I’ve smoked it too close to the filter. I snuff out the butt on top of the trash can and lift the snow covered top of the trash can outside and toss it in, followed by the now empty can. I had let my dog outside to do his business and he keeps shooting me glances as if to say, “damn, it’s cold and snowy and I want to be inside now,” so I open the back door and he goes barreling in, clambering up the stairs into the kitchen. His too long claws click against the linoleum floor. I really need to take him in to the groomer to get those trimmed.
I slip off my jacket and hang it haphazardly over the back of a dining room chair that had made it’s way into the kitchen and has stayed there despite the fact that it is always in the way of whatever I’m doing. Too lazy to move it, there it stays, acting as a catch-all for whatever random things I set on it. I walk into the dining room and shoot an indifferent glance at Jason, who is seated at the couch, typing on the laptop. I cross my eyes at him as I make my way into the bedroom where I have been camping out ever since I got home from work a few hours ago. The dog clicks along beside me and then makes a flying leap onto the bed, landing precisely where I had meant to sit down.
“Move.” I say to him. He looks at me with a “fine, whatever,” and makes a big production of heaving himself up and walks a circle a few inches from where he had been lying and collapses back on the bed with a deep sigh and a grunt. I crawl back to my spot in the corner and pick up the book I have been reading religiously since I purchased it Tuesday night. I’m making serious progress on it and am three quarters of the way done. It’s one of those books where I am eager to read it and want to finish it quickly but yet I want to take my time reading it because I don’t want it to be over with. Very rarely do I find books that captivate me so and I feel like I’ve hit pay dirt with this author. I say a silent thank you to the person who got me the gift card that allowed me to purchase said book and for the fact that I have exactly enough left on the card to buy another.
I settle in and open up to where I left off. The dog whines a bit as I shift to get more comfortable. I look down at him. He licks the blanket. “Don’t lick my blanket, dog. That’s gross.” He licks once more. Damn dog.
I read for a bit, captivated by the story. My mind begins to wonder as I think that if this fellow can write a book like this, then why the heck can’t I? Again, the tiny author that lives inside me is stirring, so I grab my bookmark–a postcard of a llama poking its head out a taxi–and slide it into place. I sit up straight and listen to hear if Jason is still typing. Silence. Awesome. I scoot off the bed and walk into the living room. He has abandoned his post and must be downstairs now. I grab the laptop and power cord and come back into the bedroom.
I plug the charger into the wall and climb back onto the bed.
And now I type……..