Taking a deep breath and a brief pause to rub the bridge of his nose, Damon closed his eyes after staring at the blinking cursor for a full 30 minutes. The bloody thing was merely there to taunt him.
The caffeine from the coffee was supposed to give him a boost of energy. Perhaps awaken those silly neurons resting in the grey mass underneath his skull.
No such luck.
The last day of relative freedom was being spent agonizing over how to get this story moving.
Standing up and grabbing his plate of leftover chicken bones, he stalked towards the kitchen – boots resounding in the empty house. .
“How do they come up with ideas? Where do they get their inspiration from?!” he asked no one in particular. Running a hand through his salt and pepper hair, he looked at the chicken bones in his plate curiously.
Damon rushed to his refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of ketchup. Chewing on his lower lip, he reached for the mustard. He couldn’t seem to get to the center of the room fast enough, completely committed to following through on his plan.
The ideas were going to come no matter what he had to do.
The cap on each of the bottles clicked as he armed himself, at the ready, with the yellow and red condiments. Squirting a perfect circle on the hardwood floor that was clean minutes ago, he looked down in satisfaction and took off his shirt. He took a healthy amount in his hands, mixing them together, and spread them over his upper body. With his middle and pointer fingers, he decorated his face.
“Now for the last part!”
With a manic grin and laugh, he reached for the two chicken leg bones and skidded back to his circle. Standing in the middle of it, he raised the bones up towards the crystal chandelier above him and commanded, “Oh great writing gods! I command you to let your spirit become known here and imbue your -”
“What in the name of all that’s good are you doing, Damon?!”
The towering man snapped his head around and blinked his bloodshot eyes. Lowering his arms, he gulped at the sight of the little blonde lady standing at the door.
“Er. Uh. You see, Liz. I was just-”
“I never thought your job managing that grocery store was going to cause you to go completely mental,” she said, putting the shopping bags on the counter and sighed at the mess.
He tried to smile as innocently as he possibly could towards his wife. Damon walked towards Liz, putting the bottles on the counter and taking the sponge she held out for him.
He vowed he would one day be a writer. But first, he had to obey the lady pointing at his ritualistic circle.
© Susan Reed
Flash Fiction story written for today’s Money For Nothing Prompt.
P.S. A bit of music to help move your Monday right along. Hope you’re all having a great day and thanks so much for stopping by!