Rough waters ahead. TRIGGER WARNING.


2.

Hanging by the doorway. Shadows swinging like pendulums, ticking off the minutes before somebody notices. Before someone screams or faints or cries or doesn't care. Words floating restlessly like galaxies tugged by gravity's waves, tumbling through the universe. Losing contact with reality. Souls and spirits or whatever you believe in slipping out of the body. Through the mouth or nose or between the teeth, like smoke or water. Anyway, one goes up the other goes down.

Maybe something less dramatic, too. Maybe a cupful of sleeping pills, a nice suit, and a bed that will be cold by morning.

Maybe a car accident.

Maybe maybe maybe

The possibilities spiral out of control until there's nothing but a blur of thoughts and provoked fears. Fear like timid animals, shivering in their dens, and panicky. Poke them with a stick and they bite. Leave them alone and they fidget. Or they scratch themselves, bit their fur, tear off their ears, trying to break themselves when only they're getting bigger and smelling worse.

Yeah, that's how it feels.

. . .

Gilbert shut his laptop. The first few words of his novel were practically begging to be published. Now, if only he could write again. Then maybe these stale words, written nearly five months previous, would have new life breathed into them.