Member-only story
Do you ever get so fed up with Writers life stuff, you just want to punch yourself in the face?
I just want to lay down in my bed, barely listening to my crazy thoughts — without interruption. But alas, the neighbours demon dogs — are barking wildly once again.
‘Shut the fuck up!’ I’m pointlessly screaming this in my head to these dogs, which is clearly unhelpful since I’m not telepathic — nor do I speak canine. Maybe they have fireworks stuck up there arseholes, I’d get that — no level of pain tolerance would spare any from that kind of burn. But still, ‘shut the fuck up! Please and thank you’.
There are words breathing down my neck like fire dragons. In this dead of winter day, you would think that might feel kinda good — but it doesn’t. I want to push them all away, perhaps perfect (ooh alliteration!) the art of pushing hands — and slay these dragons without drawing blood. Today it’s either me or these words, here we are on the edge — both chest to chest, saying ‘What!’
Maybe, these words will swallow me whole then breathe me back to life. Maybe they can tell my story better than I. Maybe they will spare me from this nothingness feeling, what is that?
