Blog post photoCreative writing


The bang that woke me was abrupt and jarring.  The room I’m in is black, the blackest black.  No light, not even at the seam where the curtain meets the window.

A loud scratch, followed by another heavier BANG!  It’s coming from down stairs.

I can’t see the bedroom floor.  Let alone the exit all the way across the room.  

I spin out of bed to my left.  Straining for vision and direction, through the void.  Shuffling around the edge of the bed, I make my way to the other side of the room.  The scratching is tearing it’s way like a screech through the stillness.  

A calm fear washes over me.  My spine shivers as a surge of adrenaline invades my being.  I reach for the door.  Slowly forcing my hand through the gelatinous ambiance that is the air between me and it.  BANG!!  My hand flies back towards me, I stumble.  I can feel the fear frantically trying to find an exit from the flesh encasing it.

“I have to get down stairs, before whatever is down there gets up here.”  

I dart to the closet, hands shaking I reach in and grab the bat resting in the corner.  With a grip that even the jaws of life couldn’t release.  I step into the hallway.  Closing the kids bedroom doors I move towards the railing overlooking the main floor.  Peering down, I take note of what I hear.  The banging is coming from the front of the house.  The scratching from all sides.  

My senses are on fire, fear has left me and desperation has taken it’s place.

Realizing there is no one in the house.  I run down to the kitchen window and look out.  That’s when I see it.  The hoard.  The apocalypse.  

Turning from the window, I reach into the cupboard and grab the hunting knife resting beside a bottle of scotch.  Stepping to the front door, brushing back the curtain, the rotting face looking in almost sent me crashing down the stairs.

I bury myself in the closet beside the door.  Chest heaving, hands shaking, beads of sweat forming.  I know I have to take action.  Time is running out.  The front door isn’t going to hold much longer, the glass is cracking beside my head.  The slow squeak and release of pressure is taunting me, instigating fear, trying to get me to abandon control.  

The glass breaks.  I pivot, plunging the Elk gutting knife in my right hand, through the temple of the face that had just taunted me.  A hand smashes through the top of the window.  Flailing wildly, trying to grab and pull me in.  I slam the Louise-Ville Slugger into the deformed jaw on the other end of that arm.  Pushing it back, giving myself a breath before the door gives way completely.

The CRACK! and POP! that came next was truly terrifying.  

The door blows.  I’m trapped in a 4×4 square, unable to swing a bat, barely able to reach out with a knife.  That’s when I realized, the back patio door had disintegrated under the pressure of the hoard outside.  

Desperately, I start slamming the door into the beasts oozing through the front.  Slashing, stabbing and pushing at anything I can.  I frantically make my way back into the living room.

“They can NOT get up stairs!”

I dive towards the sea of decay bleeding in.  

All my strength, working that baseball bat like a chainsaw through a tree trunk.  One gets by me, headed right for the stairs.  What happens next becomes my demise.

I lunged after it.  Grabbing it’s head, sinking the knife into it’s throat, the feeling washed over me.  I was falling, something had my back.  All I could feel was the slow build of pressure pinning me where I lay.  Head tilted, desperately reaching to see up the stairs.  The gray skin, tattered clothes, the dead hands and deformed faces, burned over a lifetime of memories, as everything faded to black.

My breath, the frantic rise and fall of my chest, was what woke me up more frequently than I would have liked.  A thick sense of doom, instilled by a reoccurring dream that I could not save my family.  No matter what I did.  Overwhelmed because I made the wrong choice or the wrong move, but more so that I couldn’t control the inevitable.  

The battle that was this dream, was confusing at best.  There was no win.  There was no alternative move to make.  No matter how many times I changed the weapon, the route or the order in which I interacted with this dream, the outcome was the same.  

Some times dreams are just dreams.  

Some times they help us work through issues embedded in our subconscious.  

Analyzing dreams can help identify and resolve them.  If your having a reoccurring dream, maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something.


1 reply »

  1. I suggest you guzzle a six pack with a dozen pickled eggs. That will stop anything evil in its tracks….even ugly old relatives. BiblioBob.


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