SemiMicropost

Tiny, tiny update because I still have a massive health project that I've barely started.

I started a new song today, and I've done about 10 pages worth of work today. All while wasting time on the internet.

Dr. Strangelove was one of the greatest movies I've ever seen. "Mein fuhrer! I can walk!" I might watch it again on the internet tomorrow.

I wrote a short, one-page story for English. The only guideline is that it had to be one page and we had to have 4 instances of parallelism. (With... with... and with..., he waited.)
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With silence, with patience, and with fear, he waited. As he sat up straight on his bed in near perfect darkness, he chanted under his breath “This is it. This is it.” He knew that he had heard a door slam despite the fact that he had locked all of his doors, and he certainly wasn’t expecting any company at this late hour of the night. So he grabbed his shotgun, took off the safety, and sat on his bed, waiting for whatever could be behind door number one. He knew it wasn’t a new car, or a new hot tub, or a new spouse. It was the Grim Reaper behind that door, breathing his icy breath, ascending the stairs leisurely, and filling the house with his rotten odor.

“This is it.” They were just three short words, but they were all that he could speak. Next to him, his wife was lying down, not snoring like she usually did. My beautiful wife of 52 years, I’ll make sure this killer won’t get to you, he thought. Your face is so pale in this light. You used to be so much more vivacious and alive in your younger years. You used to laugh, you used to sing, you used to dance! What happened to you? What happened to us? He heard the doorknob turn, and he cocked the shotgun.

Instead of a killer or the personification of Death, it was the police. He managed to shoot one round at a cop, but he missed and was soon overtaken by blue, yellow, and black uniforms. As he was rushed out of the room, he caught one last glimpse of his wife, the two bullet holes on her visage gleaming red in the moonlight.
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I showed it to someone and she jokingly asked if I needed help, because yeah, it is a little twisted. But her asking that made me paranoid, and I hope my teacher doesn't think i need help for writing it. I certainly wasn't depressed or upset while writing it. I really just see this as trying my hand at being a creepy writer.

Back to this health project. Peace + blessins.

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