Day 8

In need of prompt. 
Overstuffed, I sit on the couch, slowly letting the adrenaline drain from my body from the long, desperate day of toil. The potatoes have been cooked, the bills nearly paid. I place the headphones into my tired ears, only to take them out. Check on the kids. Pay the mortgage. Hear what is being said. This is the time I should be creating my novels, should be telling a story that would make an old man weep and a young girl sing with joy, but the distractions are not preventing the creation of beauty. It is within me where the blockage lies, from my soul, which does not possess any beauty in this moment. 
The lyrics scream into my ears, and suddenly, is that something? Is there an idea for me to pen, something original to develop? No, it is an old idea, an old song, one already sung by bards, and by teenagers who do not know a note from a tone. 
There are many things in my mind, but none of them are words. The words are what I desperately need, the words drive me from one moment to the next, a dying man across a barren desert in search of the words. 
My head aches.
There are many things in my mind. Will the weekend be long or short? How did I ever survive without rest, in the days I was young, quick and full of promise? I am not without promise now, but I feel the quickness has left my limbs, like a battery slowly drains throughout the long day. I become more quickly charged these days, sometimes quick to anger, but more often everything simply seems clearer. It is true what they say, then, that as the body slows, the mind does not necessarily. It is a paradox, but unimportant. I leave it on the glowing path I walk in my mind, lay it gently on the floor and move down the line. 
There are many things in my mind. The fear is there, but that lies closer to my chest, closer to the organ which, dare I think it, may stop at any time. Will it burst? Will it snap? I cannot not think about it, there must be some thought pouring into it or it will cease beating on its own. There are solutions to that particular problem, but they draw back to the quickness again, that quickness I desperately need these days. My anger flares, and I tell myself this too will change.
But then I feel the desire of ice cream, and that anger too lays upon the bright golden road of my thoughts. 
There are many things on my mind. Mostly, the thoughts bite, just like the pain in my head and back. It is easy for them to come and go, flitting in and out like canaries. Or are they robins or, oh what is that other bird. I feel angry when I force the words.
Sparrow.
There are many things on my mind. The many tasks on my to do list overshadow my joy of hearing each individual key click on my keyboard, but if there were ever a hypnosis strong enough to work on my mind, it is the typing of words steadily upon a keyboard. I wonder if Stephen King writes like this, fingers flying back and forth.
Probably. He probably knows all the words, sees them brightly in his mind, miles before he writes them. For me, it is as though accord connects to a dark room, from where the words fly willy-nilly, without rhyme, reason or rhythm. I can only see two steps in advance, so much in the moment does my tactical mind live; strategies are for action, for doing. In that, I can see leagues along. I can plan where to go, what to say, what moves to take, unless I am sitting still. 
They have probably invented a way to type while walking. But, there again, I lack the quickness.
There are many things on my mind tonight. As I look around my wonderful living room, surrounded by my wonderful family, a small part of me questions why they cannot come to the forefront and spill onto the page like oil onto the ground. Do I lack the required skill? The knowledge?
Am I bereft of story?
Am I just mediocre, just like Brian said then?
Quickly, for within my mind I have quickness now, I examine my life. 
I find no answers, negative or positive. The logic says the slight dehydration, the overwork, the toil of my body to provide for my family and to make my life better are what keeps the words from the page.
The heart says it is because I have yet to slay giants, to do something really extraordinary. 
The feet say it is because there is too much to say, too much I have already done, what needs more to be said?

Day 7

Lantern.

The yellow light bathed everything in an eerie light, making Giles feel as though he were in a surrealist’s painting. Obwall snored too loudly and Dunstill’s mouth hung slightly open as his head rolled slowly from one shoulder to the other. The swaying motion of the airplane had lulled most of the grime-covered men to sleep, but Giles stayed awake. He never could sleep in a vehicle. It always made him feel uneasy, his body moving faster than it was supposed to. Giles supposed it went back to blood, as his family were all dirt farmers from the Deep South, and had only purchased a car when Eisenhower built the freeways. The 1957 Chevy Bel Air was still the family car, a faded baby blue with spots of rust and a rebuilt engine so old it had parts from four different manufacturers. Giles could remember the feel of the steering wheel the first time-

‘Hey Joe,” said a sleepy voice to his right. “You mind killing the light?” Sergeant Creeg had fallen back asleep before Giles had a chance to answer, but he dimmed the light of his Coleman lantern all the same. The shadows lengthened, casting odd shapes on the steel floor and padded walls of the compartment of the C-17. Giles was just glad it was roomy enough for them all. He laid Military Strategy and Tactics: A Soldier’s Guide on top of his ruck, gripped the belts of his harness, pushed his boots out in front of him, and yawned widely, blinking the sleep from his eyes. All the other soldiers were racked out.

That’s odd, thought Giles. He could have sworn Lucas and Boles were awake just moments ago, chatting quietly about the mission. He looked at Boles. The red haired bodybuilder took up almost two seats by himself, but Giles had never seen him so relaxed, even clocked out in a bunk. Lucas, the skinny, dark haired scout of their motley crew was likewise normally tense, and had an odd habit of waking up every few minutes at night, ever since his previous platoon had been mortared for two days while taking an enemy compound. Now, though, he was splayed in his seat, limbs pointing at odd angles.

Giles looked at everyone else. Then he realized that their faces were clear, in sharp relief.

He looked at his lantern.

The little Coleman bulb was growing brighter. The dial was still, but the bulb burned with more and more force. Giles had to turn away.

A stab of fear ran down his throat.

The windows were lit from the outside. They were far up in the mountains, and the only thing they should see were clouds and stars, but he could see pale light taking up the entirety of each ovular window. Giles stared dumbstruck for a moment, his heart deep in his stomach. Was it an enemy plane? Were they going to be shot down? He glanced down the compartment toward the steps leading to the cockpit. He sat on the side of the plane, on the last row at the front, but at the right edge of the airship, blocked from seeing the flight deck. Were the damn pilots going to tell them what the hell was going on? He strained his ears.

And heard nothing.

There was no hum of engines.

There were no small gurgles of air escaping from the cabin air system.

Giles eyes bulged. With a massive effort, because it suddenly seemed that his entire body was filled with lead, he grasped at his buckles. His fingers felt like frozen sausages, stiff and lifeless, even though he could detect no change in cabin temperature. The muscles of his forearms burned from even this small effort, but he was able to unbuckle his harness. He pushed his body forward with another monumental effort of will, and his face hit the gritty slip-resistant strips.

Above him he heard a small pop.

The bulb on the lantern had exploded in its case.

Giles looked up.

With a terror he could not explain, he saw the filaments glowing even brighter, beginning to burn holes in the plastic case.

Giles took a shallow, shuddering breath. Then, suddenly, he felt a deep anger in his chest. The rational part of his brain had no idea what was happening, but his instincts told him his life was in great danger. He wasn’t going to die, cowering on the floor.

Slowly, he pushed himself upward, then onto his feet. He felt no vertigo, just the heavy sense of his own muscles, as though great weights had been attached to every joint of his body, pulling him down. He put one foot in front of the other, and began to stagger toward the cockpit steps. The faces of the men stood out like sentinels, as though each step were miles and his journey endless. The pale light from the windows had not faded, but had taken on a different hue, somehow less benign, more sinister. He leaned his right hand on the wall, struggling where gaps lead to storage compartments.

Finally, after what must have been hours, he reached the cockpit steps. He let out a small grunt of success.

Then something else grunted.

And clicked.

And, for some reason, let out a small squeal.

There were sounds above him, small clatters and creaks, as something moved on the flight deck.

It was not footsteps.

Giles glanced behind him. In the rear of the cabin, his lantern had finally burned itself beyond recognition. However, he noticed for the first time other lights, which had come to life. Battery lights from headlamps. Small pocket flashlights. Even a laptop screen, a blank white rectangle in the darkness. Like the lantern, they were all burning brightly, casting their light forward. He glanced upward, trying to see the flight deck.

A long, thick cylindrical appendage, like a tentacle but larger than any sea creature had ever possessed, drooped over the edge of the flight deck, illuminated by the lights.

His heart felt ready to leap out of his mouth.

Tears began streaming down his face, an unknown horror gripping his chest.

“Giles,” barked Sergeant Creeg, “Wake up, boy, the damn plane’s getting ready to land and you’re dreaming about the fucking prom queen. Christ on a cracker.”

Day 6

Characters upset with the author.

Rocking back and forth in the weathered chair, I surveyed the small rolling hills outside my cabin as the sun sank below the horizon. The mosquitoes buzzed merrily, looking for their evening meal. I was glad I had already had mine. My lips wrapped around the stogie in my mouth, but I didn’t light it. The doctors warned me that it would cut an end to my already shortened days.

As the rays of the evening sun glanced off the small, brackish pond I kept my koi in, I wondered idly, but without much worry, how many more sunsets I would see.

A soundless explosion in my ears.

My hands flew to my chest.

An enormous weight crushed me, driving me toward the ground. Breaths came in short gasps.

Suddenly, I was back in the hallway of Stonemore High, red lockers and yellow tile floors reflecting fluorescent lights at odd angles. And next to locker 125…

“Otto?” I cried, uncomprehending. It was impossible, but there he was, tall and thin, arms crossed with a sarcastic smirk playing around his lips. He wore a tattered black suit and a red velvet bow-tie, and his complexion accentuated his strong chin and broad cheekbones. Otto stared at me and his smirk widened.

I glanced down at myself.

The hands were smooth and strong, free of knotted veins and wrinkles. I was back in my favorite pair of faded blue jeans, below which were white high-tops. I straightened up and tweaked the seam of my worn leather jacket down off my hip. But that couldn’t be, because that jacket had burned down in the fire.

“Been too long, Ken,” said Otto in the soft, deep voice I had always heard so clearly, like a bell behind my eyes.

“Otto… I… how…” The words couldn’t seem to escape my throat. “How… how are you…here?” I finally choked out.

“Kenneth, I’m surprised. Don’t you remember?” Otto uncrossed his arms and pointed down the hallway, toward Mrs. Gilroy’s classroom. The oak door with the glass pane swung outward moments before the final bell rung, and a young girl in a blood-red sundress came quickly down the hallway, her face blotchy and wet from tears.

“Angela!” someone shouted, and a young boy followed.

A young boy in white high-tops, faded blue jeans and a worn leather jacket.

His pudgy face was contorted in worry. He looked down the hallway, looked right through me, but seemed to take no notice. He saw Angela turning a corner and jogged to catch up with her.

I looked back to Otto. He wasn’t next to the locker, but I saw his thin figure down the hall, turning the same corner. I ran to catch up.

“Otto,” I said, the words coming more easily than they had in years, “I don’t understand! What is going on?”

“You’ll see,” said Otto, a small chuckle in his voice, “I can’t believe you haven’t already.”

Down the hall, the kid had caught up with Angela. Their words were indistinct, but I could see Angela getting more and more agitated. As she brushed hair back around her ears, I felt a long-dead flutter in my stomach come to life.

Then, with a shock, it hit me.

“Son of a…”

Otto turned his face to me, his smile wide. Somehow, though, it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked down at me, searching my eyes.

“That’s when I first thought of her.”

“Selena,” Otto said softly, but the humor had left his face. Otto had always been capricious, and now he glared down at me and crossed his arms. “My Selena.”

I looked up at Otto. His eyes, large and dark, just as I had always imagined them, seemed to glisten slightly.

“Otto… It was… You were…” I said slowly, thinking quickly, but it was pointless.

“Expendable. A fantasy. Just a phantasm in the night.” Otto’s nostrils flared, and he snapped a sudden finger.

The school had vanished. We stood on top of a massive volcano, the glowing magma spitting flames occasionally, and a fierce wind tearing across the barren landscape. Small bits of scrub littered the uneven ground, and the sky was black as soot as a massive storm rolled in. Sulfur burned my lungs, and my pulse quickened, but I had no need to look around. I knew every detail of the landscape, having dreamed every inch almost every night for nearly 14 years. Otto stood next to me, looking across the open chasm at two stick-like figures. They moved gracefully, but the elegant movements were broken by sudden bursts of ugly posture, as though they were having some sort of seizure.

I couldn’t help it. I smiled. This was Mount Dunkall, the same landscape I had spent an entire weeks putting onto paper. I remembered the fitful nights of sleep, the moments I would wake with excitement, only to scribble a few scarce words onto paper and then heave myself back into bed.

“I’m glad you’re excited,” said Otto grimly. His arms were still crossed, but his posture, usually relaxed, was rigid like a statue.

“Otto, we don’t have to stay,” I said, and I suddenly noticed the difference in my voice. With a jolt, I looked down to see the old hands had come back, and the weariness had returned to my limbs. I missed my cane. “We shouldn’t-“

“How long did you know?” asked Otto. “Did you know from the beginning? Or did it come over time?” He stared at me. “Your memories are unclear, you see. Other things,” He said the words with disdain, “took precedence.”

I frowned, a deep resentment building up in my chest at his tone. “Like Angela? Like Charlie and Tiffany?” I paused. “Like Renee?” I said softly, and sniffed. Even now, I couldn’t even say her name without the pain returning.

Otto glowered down at me. “What makes you think they matter… any more… than her?” He pointed across the chasm, just a jet of fire loosed itself from the mass of magma and illuminated the far bank. I could see them clearly, Otto looking fierce, with a long sword in his hand, striking towards Vallin Von Vender, a gruesome figure clad in shining blue armor. Out of the darkness came a third figure, a striking woman in chain mail, who swung a massive mace toward Vender. The hulking form of Vender stumbled, but quickly regained his ground and began to swipe furiously at Otto and Selena with his massive battle-axe.

I remembered clearly how the scene would go. I closed my eyes and sighed. As much as he was in my head, I suddenly realized I could feel Otto’s emotions and memories, could see every line of dialogue I had composed, every detail I had given him. He had been one of my favorite characters to write, and was so real to me, that I understood his pain.

“But you aren’t real,” I blurted out angrily. “You all were in my head.”

“And that makes us expendable?!” Otto roared, grabbing me by the shoulders. His eyes gleamed with fury and sadness. “You toyed with us! You threw us against all sorts of evil… and for what? For entertainment!” He spat bitterly.

A sudden howl ripped through the air, and we both swung around to see a colossal mass of fur with glowing red eyes lumbering along the lip of the volcano. It was moving slowly toward Otto and I. The eyes were locked on us, and I knew the creature immediately. Varg, the deadly monster of Felgar Forest. I glanced at the three battling figures on the other bank. They showed no reaction.

A cold stab of fear hit me in the stomach. I knew this story. Varg did not belong here. Varg belonged to the Fallen series, and I hadn’t written that until well after Otto and Vender had this final showdown. Otto looked to me, and I could see he was more confused than scared.

Across the bank, Vender let out a roar of pain, and one of his arms spurted blood. He swung his axe slowly, and the other Otto stabbed him cleanly through the chest.

“No,” I said, the cold filling moving up my spine. “No, that’s not how it goes! She… she should have…”

The Otto next to me stared, then shook his head. “I don’t… understand…” he said slowly.

A light burst in the sky. Through the clouds, a small silver and green tube hurtled towards the ground. Inside, I could just glimpse a figure, bald and hook-nosed. Glandin Four.

“Otto!” I yelled, suddenly looking around. Otto had gone, and so had Selena and Vender. The wolf Varg was only yards away, and as the ship crashed into the earth, I felt the shock-wave push me back.

“Clear!”

“He’s unresponsive. Resuming CPR.”

“Clear!”

“Still nothing.”

“Clear!”

Day 5

Power's Out.

The rapid staccato of his heart against his chest increased as the bulb above him flickered. The power couldn't go out now. Not when he was so close.

“Jeremy….” said a low, soft voice, heavy with metallic feedback. “Hurry up, Jeremy…”

Jeremy’s feet pounded against the concrete, desperate for a door, a window, anything out of the dark, damp hallway. He could hear scrabbling noises behind him, but he didn’t dare to turn around. Instead, he flung himself around a corner and put as much distance as possible between him and whatever was behind him. Every 30 feet or so, he saw one of the rusty gray intercom boxes, alongside a small, wireless fish-eye camera. Anger stabbed through the wave of fear in his stomach. They would pay, whoever the voice was on the intercom. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of watching him die.

A low whine and more scrabbling, closer this time, made him try to put his feet to the ground even faster, but the dark blood from the gash on his hip had finally begun to seep onto his shoes. He stumbled, and quickly had to roll sideways as a black mass of hot fur launched itself out of the darkness. Its eyes reflected the light of the bulb overhead, and in the two black orbs Jeremy could see his face, covered with dirt and gore. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted further down the corridor, once again turning the corner. The animal, he had had no time to register what it was, let out a fierce moan as it stumbled and crashed against the wall.

Finally, Jeremy saw a break in the wall, too small to be another hallway. He ran toward it and saw a industrial steel door, flanked by two floodlights and several cameras.

“Good…. Good… You found me, Jeremy.”

Jeremy panted, bloody hands on his knees, and stared furiously at the cameras. He quickly searched the area around the door for something to break it down with, eyes combing the empty floor and wall, but there was nothing. Jeremy staggered over to one of the cameras and said ferociously as he could, “Let me in, damn you!”

“Oh, I will…. But first…”

Jeremy heard the scratch of nails on the floor. Down the hall, the black creature stopped and emitted a whimper, then tore toward him. Jeremy’s heart leapt into his chest.

“Power’s out.”

With a click, the lights down the hallway began to shut off. The animal, it looked like a cross between a bear and an enormous hound, ran ahead of each bulb as it turned off. Then, as the thing reached him, Jeremy looked up. The light above him had not gone out. He jumped, not a moment too soon, and felt the back of the feral animal underneath him. Then he caught the lightbulb in his hand and brought his full weight down on top of the beast. There was a sharp crack, then a fizzle, followed by an unnatural scream as sparks surged through the broken bulb. It was only for a moment, but it brought the animal to its knees. Jeremy’s entire body shook. He had been a conduit for the electricity for a split second, and his heart felt ready to leap out of his chest. Clumsily, he drew his hand across the floor, until his fingers touched the wire he had ripped from the ceiling. He hurried to the animal, which was starting to recover its footing, and quickly wrapped the wire around its neck.

He pulled. It struggled, trying to shake him off, but he forced himself on top of its neck. With a yelp, it bucked and wriggled, but it could not move Jeremy. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, it finally wheezed, shuddered, and died.  

Jeremy rolled to the floor and stared up at the blackness, which was speckled with tiny red dots. The cameras were watching him silently. He didn’t care.

He heard the snap of a deadbolt. The steel door swung open.

A small figure walked over to him.

With a shock of recognition, Jeremy croaked a single word before the darkness consumed his consciousness.

“Grandma?”

Day 4

Write about how it feels when you can’t focus.

I need to get-what was that?
...
Okay, it was nothing. Let me-is that an article I've seen before?
Let me check Facebook.
Hmm. It's not that interesting.
Okay. Back to the matter at hand, good sir.
...
Damn, is that the time already? Let me switch the laundry.
Okay.
Time to type.
...
Once upon a... ugh. Where the hell was I.
...
Okay.
Here we go.
...
Well, that took forever. Last time I do laundry at 10 at night. Okay, so she's going to get on the train.
What was it that she wanted from him?
Oh yeah. But wait, would that be right, for that time period?
Let me check.
Oh, wow. I can't believe the governor is approving that. That's the reason this state is in the tank. Okay.
Trains.
Trains in that era were... oh crap. Well, that won't work. I'll have to go back and rewrite that. I need some lemonade.
Okay. Can't get up until I finish! Wait, what now?