Hello, good day to you and what can I tell you?
What’s that? You would like a story?
A quirky, humorous number that I hope will make you chortle, guffaw, snigger and wet yourself in equal proportion….well maybe not the last one, unless by wet yourself you mean you spilt a beverage over yourself in spluttering glee and not….never mind!
The prompt for this one was “Four in the Morning” and I have included the comments made on submission – this little baby got me in the top ten again, I’m up on the rise once more, I can feel it in my toes! (not the little one though, that has cramp)
Feel free to add your own comments/feedback and shower me in adulation or shoot me down in sarcataclysmic endeavour, whatever your prerogative/predilection is – all that I ask is that if you are going to take the latter route, I guess you are keen to meet a grisly end in one of my stories – hey whatever floats your boat pal!
And now onto the story.
Sweet Merciful Release (by David Ellis)
Clint had tried everything.
“How do you turn this damn thing off?”
He had tried counting sheep.
Drinking copious amounts of alcohol (that just gave him a searing headache).
Washing the dishes (he’d had to make them dirty again several times, as he only ever had a few items to wash up in the sparse flat that he dared to call his ‘abode’).
Counting the ceiling tiles (1217).
Listening to music – he had tried pop, jazz, funk, soul, classical, easy listening, Egyptian Death Metal – none of them helped send him on his journey with Mr Sandman into the land of nod.
Reading – this was the worst of all, he kept getting too far into the plot and wanting to read more. Why was the dragon hoarding all of the gold? How many dusky maidens were going to be sacrificed before the hero did anything? Why is there a bard skipping around the town in purple pajamas infecting everyone with his insidious song? “Argh! – This stupid novel is making my brain somersault into overdrive!” Clint lamented sorrowfully.
Writing – he’d managed his shopping list and the lyrics to some half formed song in his head but that kept getting broadsided by someone with a very big shouty voice thundering “Insomniomniomnia!”
He tried reading the dictionary and that didn’t make him tired, just deeply bored, frustrated and with an urgent need to smash something to smithereens.
Scented candles didn’t work either.
He’d tried buying one of those massive joss stick things that smelt like perfumed bacon to see if that would dull his twitching senses but this too had been ineffectual and given him sinus trouble.
He’d tried acupuncture, aromatherapy, homeopathy, psychotherapy, electric shock treatment, hypnotherapy and even staring at the wall in the past but he might as well be hitting the Eiffel tower with a teaspoon.
And yet every day at four in the morning, his head would sink into the pillow and his brain would temporarily switch off from the creative stimuli driving him on its juggernautesque journey every bleeding night for the past thirteen years.
“This is the price that you pay for creativity but I pay it gladly” He thought.
And with that, at exactly the stroke of midnight, he started his 52nd opera with a dutiful exuberance.
Comments on submission:- “Sweet Merciful Release -‘..he might as well be hitting the Eiffel tower with a teaspoon.’ Quirky, with a great sense of humour. Clint embraces his insomnia. Highly enjoyable. Top 10.”