The tormentor fly.

I've killed that fly a dozen times in the past three or so weeks, and yet each time I go outside for a smoke he's there waiting for me.

I'm hot and miserable already. Sweat is dripping off my brow within a few minutes. It's too damn hot for confrontations. But that doesn't seem to matter because the fly buzzes around my head as though I were dead; picking at morsels of flesh and laying eggs in my scalp. I'm sure of it.

I can almost feel them breeding on my dandruff. Each time it lands on me I flinch because I can feel its tongue licking the salt from my body. That instrument leaves traces of fly saliva that I can't seem to wash off no matter how hard I try.

I've killed it a dozen times. I swear it. But each afternoon a replacement approaches from my blind side and begins to work on me, hastily nibbling on me before I take a swat at it, and all the while I'm sitting on the porch in misery and discomfort from the heat.

I can't stand it anymore. What am I going to do? I've become afraid to venture outside for fear that it will tickle my ear with its sickening whispers and foul laughter. The mind of a fly is a corruption that I find insanely jealous. I don't know how much longer I can take the fly's torture. What can I do? I am afraid that soon, I may start a buzz in the community, if I am caught chasing this demon about with a shovel. But I'm in distress from the heat and don't care at the moment. I just need to fly away from my problems and forget what'd I've heard from him.

I've become too disturbed by the tormentor fly to care if I live for his diet or die.

I just saw Jesus in the closet...

As I was leaving the restroom, I happen to peek inside the maintenance closet and that's when I saw the broom Jesus uses leaning against the wall. The broom was clearly marked with his name, Jesus.

I rubbed my eyes and turned to the guy behind me "Did you know Jesus was in the closet?"

He walked around the counter and looked inside, then chuckled "Funny. That's a good one."

Sure enough. The broom Jesus used to clean up was leaning against the wall. But if you don't wear your glasses, like I do once in a while, and come across an obvious sign like that one then it's time to re-evaluate life and ask yourself "What does it mean?"

Now I can take it several ways. I need to forgive someone. Or I am about to be forgiven for something I'm about to do.

Or maybe the message was "Salvation can only come out of the closet if you are prepared to sweep away the cobwebs."

Hmmm...I think I just had a spiritual encounter. What do you think? Has anyone else ever had one of those encounters before?

The Neurotic Cat.

My neighbor just told me about the cat out back last night. He told me that the cat out back kept scratching on my door. He told me this wasn't the first time he's seen this cat hanging around out back. I believed him because I have cats, strays I guess, visiting me every night when I go out for a smoke.

These cats began to appear my very first night here. I didn't think anything of it at first. But after a couple days I noticed how they seem to appear whenever I step out the front door. They don't bother me. They just sit and stare at me.

I've had my share of nature the past few years and have grown used to these events. So I have a neurotic cat now who demands to come inside while I'm asleep at night. Nothing new or exciting about all this, I'm sure.

So the crickets, scorpions, rats, and snails don't bother me now that I have a cat out back watching my back.

Disturbing behavior...

I write horror, suspense, and thrillers so I naturally have this tendency to dig deep inside for disturbing behavior that I can use in my works. I've written prose of extreme horror, death by means most people would cringe, and suspense that would be marked too realism for most.

But all this disturbing behavior of my characters are not me. I don't stalk women, nor do I pray on the innocent -- depraved behavior that drives my antagonistic characters. I'm a nice guy by my nature, so it pains me sometimes to exploit these feelings for my work. I love my writing, to a point I get excited by the dismal failings of humans when suffering, and yet I am troubled that these same thoughts that make my work believable are able to surface so easily.

I've seen dead prostitutes, murdered people, the scabs of humanity that walks silently while taking life without remorse, as I've seen and experienced so much pain in my time here. Now I draw upon these emotions for my work and it disturbs me sometimes.

How do people manage to remain sane when writing about insanity, chaos, death, or any form of humility at the hands of an antagonistic character?

I'm at a loss within myself to be the nice guy and the same man who will gladly open a wound to see my own suffering as a writer.

Any thoughts about the anguish of writing a genre that is so disturbing that it also affects your mental health?

P.S. I am writing a short story now about a young man who drags a dead uncle into Walmart (generic store) to cash the uncle's social security check. So, I must feel and think as this boy which bothers me a little.