Frankenstein’s Brain

Someone has stolen my brain; ripped my head open like Victor Frankenstein high on caffeine, and left an I.O.U. in its place.

Blank space, that’s all I’ve got right now. A bunch of false starts, dead ends and crumpled paper. I am literally drowning in little white balls of paper. Each one a failure to initiate, a failure to consummate, a failure to create. Each ball filled with little black squiggles of nothing. Each squiggle that started out strong but degenerated into time-worn cliché.

It’s like someone broke into my head and stole the ideas. They even took the feeble nightlight from which the ideas sparked. Maybe the light didn’t light on one side so these thieves took it to their workshop where they’ll fix it up there and then bring it back here.

Maybe.

I did manage to catch a glimpse of the nefarious blighters. I know just who they are. Netflix, Angry Birds, You Tube.

It’s my own fault, really. I let them in. I let them plug all their plugs into my head. I let them run all their toys until my battery was dead. And yet each night I open the door, when they come calling, and let them in while my writing peers through the window, on the outside looking in. Sometimes I hear it there, knocking, softly tapping, the noise like and itch I can’t scratch, but I turn away. The bright lights and loud colours capture my attention. Green pigs snorting their laughter, taunting me to try again and again, and there is just one show I should checkout and that video on You Tube that just came out.

I’ll complain to Netflix that their picture is fuzzy, and jerky, but I complain soft and low, the words drifting out of my mouth, fragmented and insubstantial like breath in the winter, while my eyes soak up the scenes. One more episode of Scooby-Doo, of Walking Dead, of Soap; please sir may I have some more?

I see the book on my night table, the dust covering it up a little more each day. I feel sad that it lays lonely, I promise that tonight will be different and yet… Netflix comes calling with a show from the past.

My hands shake, my eyes bloodshot, my muse slowly fading. I’m being brain washed. But not tonight, nevermore, I manage weakly from my place on the floor, and vow not to answer the knock on the door. The knock so insidious it lifts me to my feet. It marionettes me to the portal, though I shout NEVERMORE, it raises my hand with the promise… just one more.

My hand reaches out, a twisted claw from some being, undead, and… I open the window and let my muse come in, instead. The door rattles and shakes, Netflix screams offers of High Definition and all that, Angry Birds has new levels while Facebook, just wants to chat. But once inside, my muse fills the space with voices and pictures more vivid than anything Netflix can offer and a familiar, but comforting, click clack, click clack fills the air as the little black squiggles carry me far from here.

I just did it to you 😉 Stole you away for a bit. I apologize. Think of this as my version of adding a handful of grass to the tinder. 

Sometimes you just have to write and when you do, no matter how silly, good things happen. If nothing else you’ll at least get a giggle. This is my giggle. Happy reading!

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About Dale Long

Writing ambushed me from the shadows. At first I pushed it aside as nonsense, but luckily my wife and two girls saw the potential. Since then I have had an article published by Metroland, placed as runner-up and in the top ten in humour writing contests and various other contests. The icing on the cake was placing as runner-up in the WCDR's Wicked Words contest (130 entries) and having my entry published in the contests anthology of the same name. My entry was an exerpt from my upcoming novel, Echoes.
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12 Responses to Frankenstein’s Brain

  1. deepamwadds says:

    Good one.. Angry Birds addict, eh? Just keep the fingers moving, and no… I don’t mean on the remote! Okay, signing off… just a peek… can’t stay long, my muse can be a real bitch, too, if I keep her waiting too long.

  2. You are so sad, Dale! Just sit your butt down and date your muse. There shall be no more “Nevermore(s)” from that raven for you. Change it to “evermore”. Missed your posts while you were being led astray.

  3. Been there, Dale, done that. Two deep breathes, maybe three, a walk around the block and then get back at ‘er. Thanks for the dramatic break, and now we must both return to our muse and whether he/she is there must accept there is no shame in shitty drafts.

    • Dale Long says:

      I dunno, Sharon, I’ve had some pretty odourific Shitty drafts… OH, you mean writing 😉
      Nyuk, nyuk nyuk. Seriously, I really am mad at work on Appetites, novel#2. Blogging, on the other hand…

  4. I loved your Grinch nod. This was so very Edgar Allen Poe of you, Dale. Nothing wrong with external influences–they shape our lives and form the primordial soup from which your unique Frankenstein emerges. Tis a thing of beauty.

  5. Maaja says:

    Thanks for the Inspiration.

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