Chip chip chip

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

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

It's dark and the rats are eating my sleep. They feast on my lack growing fat and fearless. I've been in bed for three hours, tossing and turning, and each time I slide from consciousness into that darkened stage of the first dream, the crinkle of paper or scratching at the door jerks me back into a house of rats. Last night, one of them knocked a tower of quarters off my dresser. What would be considered squeaking in the daylight becomes tiny shrieks in the middle of the night.

I'm not paralyzed with fear though my heart experiences a jolt each time they pull me out of sleep. I'm angry and powerless. They have run of the house and if I chase them away, they come back minutes later. Once I turned on the light fast enough to see one run up the side of my book case and across the tops of picture frames hanging on the wall. It didn't even try to hide. They should be afraid, not me. Not me!

Are they on the bed now? I pray not and yet still something moves ever closer. I want to flee but there is nowhere to go.


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Comments (2 so far!)

Jim Stitzel

Jim Stitzel

Yeesh. Time to put out some rat poison...

  • #3157 Posted 5 years ago
  • 0
In Nights Arms

In Nights Arms

Or a few hungry cats.

  • #3173 Posted 5 years ago
  • 0
  • Published 5 years ago and featured 5 years ago.
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