by Guy Anthony De Marco

I’ve been facing an empty page, the character prompt flashing like a tiny
rusted pin wielded by a sadistic acupuncture dropout, jabbing my impotent
writing ego over and over.

There is nothing to write about. Well, nothing horror-related, which means
the same thing to me. My haunted laptop taunts me, the keys pale and slick,
letters worn to the point where they remind me of Celtic tombstones, still
around to remind us of the glorious departed, but insufficient to read the
names of the dead carved upon the monument.

I decide to take a break from the self-torture, tired from the creaking
springs in my chair pushing against my spine. One of these days, I won’t be
able to get out, and they’ll find me with the coils twisted around my ribs
and through my vitals, flailing around like a spring-loaded clown doll.

My wife made a juicy, still-oozing steak, and left it by the crazy stove. I
hate that stove; I’ve found it turned on in the middle of the night,
belching flames and a curious brimstone odor. Our cat disappeared that night
too, an odd coincidence.

The steak looks inviting, lying next to the garlic cloves and in a ring of
mashed potatoes, which acts as a dam to hold in the blood and juices. No
fork, for some reason, only a silver-handled knife embedded in the meat. I
don’t mind. Even though I yell at my kids when they feast on flesh using
their fingers, I personally like the feel of blood running down my arms as
my teeth rip apart the muscle fibers.

After devouring the steak, I poke my head into the fridge, moving aside
several random opaque containers my wife uses to store things. One of these
days I need to look in them, no telling what she’s been up to. Behind the
carton of thick nightcrawlers, some of which escaped into the strawberry
pudding yesterday, there’s a jar of thick brownish liquid with a couple of
round objects drifting around the bottom. I can’t make out what they are,
but I get a flash of blue-green, perhaps hazel, when I swirl the container.
Maybe it’s a leftover from some past dinner, who knows. Further digging
reveals a container of cherry lemonade, which I chug right out of the
pitcher. If my wife caught me, she’d embed a cleaver in my neck.

My hunger sated, thirst quenched, I head back to my little nest, surrounded
by ancient whispering books and papers. The chair springs welcome my old
bones, the laptop slides over like a glowing coffin lid, and I’m back to
this damn torture of having my eyeballs assaulted by the stark, veil-colored
blank page, the cursor blinking ghost-like, playing hide-and-seek with my
consciousness. I wish I could think of something.

You know, if only my muse was undead, I’d have something to write about.


Guy Anthony De Marco resides on a ranch, surrounded by whispering books and
stories. His kids enjoy burning voodoo dolls, and his wife puts up with the
zombies because the view is wonderful off the back porch. Guy attempts to
maintain a website at, but ghosts keep
messing things up.