The Starting-Gun Sleep-Slide
The Muse meets The Sleeping Pill.
100 with which to play; my fingers jitter in anticipation of their dance.
I’ve smoked, taken my meds. I feel comfortable.
The room is quiet-deep; pale-painted wood waits for the keyboard-song.
My mind wanders around the painting I am trapped in: the world sleeps.
Words will bounce around the room like bone-dice in a tavern betting mug.
Dice rattle, and hearth smoke. I see it. I’ll write a tavern scene.
I close my eyes and let my body sink for a moment. My stomach growls.
Hydroxyzine takes 60 minutes to kick in. Less when I’m hungry.
The tavern fades…
About the Creator
Conor Darrall
Short-stories, poetry and random scribblings. Irish traditional musician, sword student, draoi and strange egg. Bipolar/ADD. Currently querying my novel 'The Forgotten 47' - @conordarrall / www.conordarrall.com
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Comments (2)
I liked the ending a lot. You conveyed beautifully the elusive moment of creativity onset. If only the meds wouldn't interfere....
Awww bliss