When camping in a park, a tuba left sitting on the picnic table, ensures the sites on either side will remain empty.

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Six Word Novel #54

Coffee’s on.
Come in.
Sit down.

The Fleshing Out

“SHIT!” I screeched at the top of my lungs as I found myself again seated before my keyboard. My shout scared the dog’s as they slept peacefully on the bed behind me, and they scattered, heading for the outside.

“Sorry,” I whispered through gritted teeth, “but it’s the same thing every year as I silently resolve to stop blogging.”

This time it began 21 days before the New Year arrived. On that day, shortly after waving goodbye to my wife as she headed for work yet again, I sat in the dark of our at our dining room, talking to God.

“Father God – please release me from this chore,” I begged, “I don’t think my blogging is do you any good and I know it’s not doing me any good. Besides, I’m so damned tired.”

I heard nothing, felt nothing as I held my face in the palms of my hands, thinking, “Maybe, God doesn’t hear my groans. Hell, maybe He thinks this more of a grumble.”

After a lengthy period of silence, I added, “Let you’re will be done and not mine,” and I finally got up and walked to the back room to write my last story of the year. That’s where I found myself screaming cuss words at my reflection in the computer screen and frightening my hounds.

One-thousand-six-hundred-and-fifty words later, I put the story of ‘a desperately hopeless man with an ironic sense of humor and bent on suicide,’ to bed. Done. Finished. Finito. No more. Over and out. The end. Fin.

Finally, the old year dissolved in a liquid vat of nothingness and the new one began it’s emergence from the unending void of measurements. And so, on this first new morning of a new 365-day period, I sat at the table, having seen my wife off to work once more, and I opened my conversation with Father God.

“Thank you for letting me off the hook, Lord,” I started, “Thank you for allowing me to borrow from your mind, from your talent. I’m so happy not to be blogging anymore.”

I gently put my head on my arms, resting both on the table and relaxed, slipping towards a near-state-of-sleep.

It was like a bean-bag fired from a shotgun, as two thoughts simultaneously blasted their way between the hemispheres of my brain. Two internal voices shattering my revere; one saying ‘You ain’t off the hook,’ the other laying out a flash of a memory, a story-line needing further fleshing out.

The shock caused me to pop up from my chair and come to a standing position. My brain felt like it was beginning to boil as one of the voices stated clearly: “You can quit if you want – but I trust you won’t because you fear and love me.”

“You know that I do,” I answered though no one was there. (Oh, how I hate when He uses the older definition of ‘fear.’)

Then I began to cry, realizing I was living with both the thorn and the rose, lovely and pain-filled. As I walked down the hall to the back room, I suddenly remembered, “I’m not writing for the glory here on earth.”

Seven-hundred-and-six words later, I published my first blog post for the newest year. What a frickin’ kick in the ass this lesson has been.

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