Had an itch

And I just had to scratch it. I have Acidstripez to thank for that. No, it was not something like that. Get your mind out of the gutter. She has been taking a creative writing class and has been picking my brain about a project that she was working on. I will have you know that I am not a fan of my own writing.

I used to write on a fairly regular basis, but I considered most of what I wrote to not be worth reading. It all got filed away in one place or another and left to basically rot. There have been ideas and urges to write over the years, but those have never produced anything that I was ever happy with. There have also been many times that I have had an idea, and I would begin writing only to have it all slip out of my mind’s grasp a short while later. That, in effect, kills any story that I have ever tried to write.

Writer’s block has taken the blame for a lot of my lack of writing. That even applies to posting timely things here instead of waiting weeks between posts and then only leaving something that may sound more like a rant than any kind of informative post.

This is something similar to what I mentioned earlier. The idea was there. The words were here. However, it all fell apart when I got to a certain part of the writing. The idea went away, and it has not returned. I suppose that I should revisit this one at some point. I know part of what I wanted to do.

I have always found that, when beginning a new story, I tend to add what I consider to be too much dialogue. This piece of writing was an attempt to leave all dialogue out. The world would have been mostly devoid of life and those that survived whatever calamity had befallen it would have been mute. They may have completely lost their ability to communicate. I really don’t know at this point.

Sharing my writing has never been high on my priority list. In fact, it has never been something that I have been comfortable with. Most of what I have written has been something that I have considered to be adolescent drivel and generally fairly bad writing.

However, here you go. Enjoy. Don’t enjoy. That is totally up to you, the reader.

A silence shattering screech rent the air as the rusted hinge protested against its use. It was difficult to know when the last time it had been used, but there was shelter behind the door that it was connected to, and shelter was what the man needed. The sand storm was approaching swiftly, and it was looking much more dangerous than the last one.

He squeezed through the opening that he was able to make and then dragged the door back closed. The wind was picking up outside, howling with such ferocity that he could only shake his head in wonder. This was one of those storms that you certainly did not want to be caught out in. The man hoped fervently that other survivors, if there were any, were able to find refuge.

The sounds of sand and debris plinking off of the door began. It would have almost been soothing if he didn’t know what was really going on. He glanced around the room quickly as the plinks became thuds, and the sand hitting the door became more constant. There were a couple of large windows here that were miraculously unbroken, but he wasn’t sure that they would stay that way. One of the windows cracked as a small object slammed against it.

The room itself wasn’t empty, but he wasn’t sure what there was that he could use to block the windows. That would be the best way to keep safe while here. He was going to have to figure something else out. There were chairs that had armrests and a place to place your feet. You couldn’t tell what color they were with the layers of dust that covered them especially with the low and dying light of the day filtering through the sandstorm and the grime covered windows.

The floor seemed to have a black and white checkerboard design that he could only notice through his own footsteps. Odd tools were hanging from small countertops along the walls and in front of those chairs.

A barbershop. He had found shelter in a barbershop. That was amazingly bad luck, but he would make do with what he had. The other window cracked as another object was slammed against it. He was going to have to hurry. Those chairs wouldn’t budge. They must have been bolted to the floor, and that was just downright inconvenient. He did notice a small desk near the back of the room which would provide some cover. It would simply have to do.

The cacophony of the storm increased exponentially as the first window imploded sending shards of glass, debris, and a wall of sand into the room. The man’s arm raised instinctively to cover his face as he turned and ran and hunkered down behind the desk. Sand flew all around him. It slid along the floor and the walls. It whirled around and around, collecting in the creases between the floor and the walls. The corners quickly disappeared in drifts of grit.

He quickly pulled a ripped piece of cloth from his bag fumbling with his canteen in an effort to remove the top. The top fell to the floor and was almost immediately blown around and out of his reach. He grunted and then poured some of his precious water onto the cloth and held it to his face, covering his nose and mouth. He hunkered down in the space under the desk and did his best to move whatever he could to block the gaps between the desk and the floor. With that being done, he turned his attention to blocking off the biggest danger to him; the opening that he just crawled through to take this spot.

The man quickly tied the cloth around his face still keeping his nose and mouth covered. Breathing through the moist cloth was difficult, but he was much better than breathing in all of the sand flying through the room. He removed his cloak and attached one corner to the desk by jamming his knife through the material and into a crack in the bottom of the desktop. He held the other corner up with one hand and used his feet to hold down the bottom portion.

His eyes snapped open as a grunt of pain escaped his lips. His left calf cramped up horribly from having been in the same position for hours. He reached down and massaged it vigorously in an attempt to get it to loosen up. These types of cramps were the worst that he experienced. Luckily, they didn’t happen all that often. He could feel the knot that had developed and worked on it with the heel of his palm while trying to keep his cloak from falling and exposing his bed for the night.

The wind continued to howl both outside and within the barbershop. Sand and debris still swirled throughout the room. One could hear it sliding along the walls, the chairs, the desk, and even his cloak. Things, debris, smacked against the walls. Mirrors audibly cracked, but the shards fell mutely to the floor. He figured that there must be several inches of sand coating everything by now. The sand pressing against his feet through his cloak fairly well proved that.

His cramped calf was beginning to calm down. The pain was much more manageable than it was, but it certainly wasn’t gone. It would likely return, and it would return worse than before, but there wasn’t much to do about that.

That is as is far as I could get before the idea flitted away like a butterfly on that same vicious wind. I sat down and tried to get it back, but it was gone. It is far from complete, and I actually believe that if I could get the ideas back, then it may just end up being something that I would be proud to have written. I have just had a hard time seeing that happen.

I am not a talented writer. It is not something that I have ever claimed. It is not likely that I will ever claim to being good at it. There are times when the words come easy, and they flow quickly onto this digital medium, and then there are those other times where I am just at a loss. Those later times happen all too often these days.

There are a couple of other posts here which contain writing that I have done over the years. I will not claim that they are worth reading, but they are here. You can find those under the category “The Written Word.”

With all of that having been said, y’all have yourselves a great day.

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