Getting Up

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

I lay in the bed craving sleep. Even though I’d gone to bed at midnight, I’d woken up dozens of times, turning over and over, back and forth, continually searching for comfort that teased me. I felt groggy and gross. My body felt heavy as stone. I wanted to become stone. Being a rock seemed like a perfect career choice. Turning over to get more comfortable was beyond my capabilities. My head felt thick, wooden. If I could just go back to sleep for thirty minutes, I would feel so much better. If I could just drift back into the darkness for a little--

Violent noise that made my skin spike in frustration, destroyed any chance of restful sleep. I hated the alarm so much at that moment that if my hate had been channeled power, then the offending clock would have melted into a pool of noiseless black slag. I glared at the clock face.

As my body and mind became more fully awake, my spirit died. The dread of facing the rest of the day in this state was like a standing in the face of an avalanche.



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Comments (3 so far!)



Ouch, this hurt. This kind of pain is too common for too many people.

  • #712 Posted 8 years ago
  • 0


"Ugh." Perfect word, perfectly ending, the most sensory language in the piece. Painful.

  • #715 Posted 8 years ago
  • 0


Gloriously described, if a little too close to home for comfort. Man, I hate being unable to sleep. With passion.

  • #730 Posted 8 years ago
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  • Published 8 years ago.
  • Story viewed 17 times and rated 0 times.

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