Certain Things to Fear - Remembering Why I am Here

One thing all writers - and books on writing - seem to have in common is this simple message: read much and read often.  I'm constantly being told to read everything, especially those authors and poets that focus particularly in genres that I plan on writing.  Now, I haven't decided on a single genre yet - I'm keeping myself open until I grow into my skills as a writer - but I do have a few 'favorite' writers.
Recently I've taken to reading a lot of the works written by George Saunders and Neil Gaiman - especially the latter.  I've always loved the way Gaiman approaches fiction: a mixture of fantasy and horror that touches on the deeper musings of what it means to be a 'person.'  Combine that approach with Saunders' ability to depict human nature in an uncanny, revealing way and you've got a style that I think matches what I hope to do.

However, sometimes I get so caught up in short fiction, fantasy, and large novel concepts that I forget what introduced me to the world of writing in the first place: poetry.  Most people have always told me that poetry is a nightmare for them: difficult to write and often more difficult to understand.  I have always maintained - and still do to this day - that poetry is as simple as looking inward, and letting the writing come out naturally. There are many ways to present the creative nature of yourself, and all you have to do is find what works best for you.

That's what I think, anyway.

Writing Prompt:

Neil Gaiman - The Fairy Reel

Which leads me to today's work: a poem inspired by a fun little rhyme tucked away in a collection of short stories by the master of the macabre himself: Neil Gaiman.  It's a strange little thing that needs a lot of work, but I present it to you know for your opinion and general reading pleasure.

Please, let me know what you think!

Poetry

TITLE: Certain Things to Fear

You see there truly are some things in me

     in which, at times, I do believe.

A fear for all things I cannot see

     a darkness waiting with sharpened teeth.

With baited breath I often peak

     around the corners of my mind

and through the gaps between my hands

     at what new terrors I might find.

what beast lies dormant beneath the sheet

     what ghost haunts my past?

What buried memory will come

     and drag me down at last?

'Tis an interesting thought, no doubt

     one which keeps me up many nights;

because even the fearless among us

     are afraid to turn out certain lights.

and so when i close my weary eyes

     and at last open up my mind

I find myself wishing on a star

     that I could leave my demons all behind.

Instead the shadows lengthen here

     in this place of yesterdays and none

and from this nightmare I awake

     to be thrust into another one.

I look to you and her, my friends

     to him and it and me.

To tell if monsters do exist - 

     to come and set me free. 

Runaway Faucet - Sometimes, The Mind Does All the Work and the Fingers Struggle to Keep Up

This little piece just kind of hit me one night - I was having trouble sleeping and I actually heard a faucet in the apartment somewhere, dripping repeatedly and monotonously, without stopping. Of course, my attention latched onto it and I couldn't focus on anything else - sleep was out of the question, at the very least.

So I went ahead and fixed the faucet, stopping it from playing more if its rancorous music. Since I couldn't sleep, my mind started to drift, to a kind of dark question:

Writing Prompt:
What if it wasn't water making that sound?

That was my prompt for the introduction piece below.  I would be interested to turning it into a story, but we'll see.  Of course, I'm open to thoughts and interpretations here from anyone who feels like sharing - thought you might have to register on Google to leave a comment.

Short Fiction

TITLE: TBD (Runaway Faucet is a Placeholder)

Night is a special time for me. For everyone, really. The rest of the world just kind of melts away with the sun, becoming lost in the velvet of the encroaching shadows. I like the night, it's peaceful.

I've been up for far too long, now. I can feel sleep stealing over me like a vaguely oppressive force weighing down on my eyelids. I blink for a second, and the clock shows minutes have passed. There is a bitter struggle between my eyes and my eyelids - the mind is willing, but the body is not.

Using the pale light of the fading television, I guide myself into the bedroom. I'm vaguely aware of the 'no signal' message, but the auto sleep timer should take care of that after a while. It's been on for so long, I'm surprised it hasn't shut off already.

I drift hazily past the bathroom, too weak to bother brushing my teeth before passing out in this dry heat. It doesn't really matter, it's not like there is anyone here to smell my breath anyway. It's kind of nice having a queen size bed all too myself - plenty of room to get lost in on nights like this.

I fumble for my phone in the dark, setting the alarm for seven in the morning. A tiny message tells me that I'll be waking up in four hours - well-rested, I'm sure. Before everything goes black behind the curtain of my eyes, I notice the date - as if I hadn't stared at it enough over the top of empty bottle on the table: May 14th.

The sounds of nature outside disappear immediately - no more birds rustling through the trees, no more wind wreaking havoc on the ground below. The natural static in the air crackles into nothingness and I hear nothing but my breath: in and out, slow and faint against the hazy backdrop of night.

And a steady, rhythmic dripping coming from somewhere else. Somewhere close but too far for my brain to understand.

Drip. 

Water, maybe? It could be a faucet - a rush of silver and blues against white porcelain. Filling for a moment before disappearing without a thought.

          Drip.

It rained recently. Greens and oranges and greys falling together reminding us that spring is here. Pooling along the gutters and fading away - slowly, repeatedly.

Drip.

Her again. Red and crimson and maroon spreading away, trying to escape the room. Reaching the edge and falling slowly to splash on the tiled floor. Her hand outstretched at an unnatural angle, her hair matted with freshly flowing life. When she hit the table, there was a snap before everything came rushing out. Only to be slowly cascading from top to bottom, seeking another place to rest.

He looks at me - like he always does - a finger pressed against his lips. The same ruby colored nightmare clutches an old trophy in one hand, dented to match the divot in her skull. It hits the floor with a rancorous clang as the soft meta bounces off the mosaic tile, but all I can hear is that steady, rhythmic reminder.

          Drip.

*** 

Waking with a jolt is never fun. It gives me a headache every single time it happens. Sitting up quickly, I throw the sheets off of me as I fight the dizziness and the bile inducing vertigo. The phone is on the floor - must have knocked it over when the alarm started going off. It's telling me something I don't want to hear: It's 7:45 AM and I am late for work.

Just another wonderful May morning.