the Writer

I've always dream to one day write a novel.  My goal last year to "start" writing a book and I didn't do it.  I was scared to write even one sentence.  Isn't it funny how we put walls in front of the most simple dreams.  A number of friends told me to write one paragraph.  That's all.  It would've completed that goal.  I didn't do it.  I'm not brave enough for the scrutiny.  In my music it's always been easier to hide behind loud guitars and hidden meanings and inside jokes in my lyrics.  A book is like an open door straight into the author's mind/heart/soul. 

My friend and current roommate is a writer.  He writes dark sardonic tales varying in length and lately has inspired me.  Here is one of the newer stories from his website: www.marklistone.com/thewriter

The Devil’s Daughter - By Mark Lidstone

Dean stepped slowly into the dark room, his hightops squeaked against the shining, hardwood floor. After a series of unanswered knocks, he had let himself in through the unlocked door. He was already regretting it.
To the right was a long, dark, hallway. Dean couldn’t see anything at first but he could hear the clicking of well-tailored shoes against the hardwood moving towards him. Soon, the shadows parted, clearing a path for a tall, slender man. Darkness lingered like small hands brushing against his silk suit. The man stopped and stared at Dean evaluating his dirty sweatshirt and ill-fitting jeans.
Dean slipped his hands into his pockets and gripped his iPhone as if it offered some kind of protection. Not even a round of Angry Birds could help him now. He stared down at his feet and was caught off-guard by the booming voice from the hallway.

“You are dean” said the voice. It wasn’t a question but Dean tried to answer it anyway. No words came. He could barely manage a wobbly half-nod.
The man was silent. He moved his hand slowly towards his chest, disappearing inside of his jacket pocket. When it reappeared, it was holding a long, thin, cigarette. The white of the paper pierced the darkness like a small beacon of light. He placed the unlit cigarette between his lips. Before long, the tip began to burn and a small trail of blue smoke trickled out.
“Jesus Christ”, Dean muttered through his breath. The man inhaled deeply and blew out a cloud of smoke after pulling the cigarette away between his thumb and pointer finger.
“Not quite” he said to himself. “Tell me Dean, what are your intentions regarding my daughter?”. Dean stumbled for an answer that didn’t involve the word “fuck”.
“G-g-ood” was his only response. His idiotic reply amazed even himself.
“Good?” asked the man through a cloud of smoke.
“I h-have nothing but g-good intentions towards your daughter” he said with a little more success. “…sir”. He stared at his feet once again. No longer could he watch this monster as it slowly devoured what little self confidence Dean had left. He nearly died of fright when two small hands came from behind him and wrapped around his pathetic excuse for a waist.
“Leave him alone, dad” came the tiny voice near Dean’s shoulder, “and turn on a light, you’re not Dracula”. She flipped the switch to the hallway light revealing her smoking father. He glared at her scant outfit but would leave that argument for another night.
“Where are you going?” he asked. The question was directed to Dean who could only mouth words as though he were imitating a beached fish.
“Movie” was the annoyed response from his teenage daughter as she grabbed Dean by the arm and began to lead him away.
“Be back by ten”, he demanded.
“Eleven”, she shouted back as she dashed through the door with her date right behind her.
“Dammit Lucy, I’m..” he shouted after her but was quickly cut off by a slamming door. He was alone. He slumped into his easy chair and rested his feet on the stool reminiscing of days passed while puffing on his cigarette.
There was a time when he was respected. Feared even. Men would spend their entire lives trying to avoid him, only coming to him when they were out of options – offering their souls for help.
He’d gone by many different names then. Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, Balial – names of legend. Now he went by “Dad” or “Daddy” – when she wanted something.
He envied those he’d left behind in hell. They knew nothing of suffering. They weren’t raising a sixteen year old girl.
--
follow Mark on Twitter:
@marklidstone
follow me on Twitter:
@martyzylstra