Heavy smoke fills the brisk Autumn air
and he sits in his somehow dark room
at 3 O'clock in the afternoon and broods over
the fact that not a singular inspired thought can come to mind.
Romance? No the very thought of forcing himself
into another relationship just to write a book made him nauseous.
Thriller? Ugh if he had to chase another family around their house
in the dead of night and get his clothes bloody again he'd rather die himself.
Fantasy? He was never very good at writing about
experiences he himself had not lived.
Horror? Like what? Locking another person up in his basement
while physically and psychologically torturing them? Been there, wrote that.
With nothing to write about, his will as a writer was was coming to an end
That was until on that same fine Autumn evening the ghost of books past visited him.
And one by one they took turn whispering in his ear about the greatest story's
the world had ever feasted their ears upon.
It was finally time, he thought to himself excitedly
So he walked over to his bookshelf grabbed his diary
which detailed every gruesome thing he'd ever done, placed it on his desk,
and grabbed the key he kept taped to the last page.
With his key and the Autumn wind whispering sweet nothings to him
through the cracked window, he opened the secret compartment in his desk
and swallowed that pretty little pill that would allow him
to write the best story, the world will never see on this fine Autumn evening.