Hello and welcome to my literary mind! I will pop in from time to time and write anything that comes to mind. My posts shall consist of anything I want; small poems, writings, etc. If you take the time to read these things, I want to thank you in advance. Any criticism is greatly appreciated! Just shoot me a PM.

The Attic

I live in a pretty standard house. It is a medium sized, two story house. It's basically something you would see out of "Little Boxes," but with a sort of twist. We have a pond in the front yard, right in front of the giant sliding windows that allow onlookers to look inside the family room, complete with a couple of couches, TV, oak coffee table, and various family gaming consoles. That room is what you see on your right when you walk in through the front door. Turn to your left, immediately when you walk in, and you see a white door. That is the door to the garage.

When you walk into the garage, you are met with a clutter. Well, clutter is more of an understatement. I'm not saying that it is impossible to maneuver through it, there is a just a bunch of stuff around that can be thrown away, but hasn't. If you look straight ahead, there is an old, still working refrigerator staring back at you. Next to it, with a space in between for a door that allows access to the side of the house, is a white freezer, about an inch or so shorter than me (I am 6'0, by the way). Next to that, facing perpendicular to both appliances is the silver washing machine, and matching dryer. Standing at the door, if you were to look at the middle of the ceiling, you would be able to see, depending on if the ladder was down or not (which it usually is, because my family is too lazy to put it back up), some of the inside of our attic. I could probably tell you the whole layout of the garage like it was the back of my hand, but that isn't the point of this story. The point of the story is that every time I go into the garage, whether it is to put a load in the washer, to get something from the fridge or freezer, or something from the pantry, or for anything else, I get extremely uncomfortable. Why is that, you ask?

Because there is something in my attic.

I am not sure what it is, all I know is that it is living up in my attic. I know what you must be thinking, Oh Gonzo you silly goof, there is nothing living in your attic! It is just your over-active imagination. Normally, I would agree with you, mainly because I am a major skeptic, and don't believe in ghosts or spirits or daemons, but this is a bit different. Maybe it is my over-active imagination, but then again, maybe not.

I go into the attic frequently, mainly because I am the one who gets all of the stuff when we go on trips, when we decorate, etc., and I am totally fine every time I go up into it (except for one time where I went up and a small decorative lamp started wobbling for no reason at all, which only just helped with the notion that something is up there). It isn't until I am down in the garage, with my back turned, that I start to feel uneasy. I find myself rushing into the garage, taking a quick glance up at the open attic, looking for anything that would confirm my suspicion, quickly doing what needs to be done, and then rushing out without a glance behind me.

I have thought a lot about the thing up in my attic, and have tried to envision what it looks like. Sometimes I see it as a little creature, resembling Gollum, but with more grotesque features such as decomposing flesh, half a face, and a drooping eye. Sometimes I see it as one of the things I hate the most, a clown. Nothing grotesque, just a regular clown. Sometimes I just see a face, no body, no head, just a face. No matter what I see it as, it always has the same damn, demented smile on it's face. I imagine it staring at me, hungrily, waiting for me to turn around and look. Waiting for me to open my mouth in surprise. Waiting for me to not be able to move out of sheer terror so that it can snatch me up and take me away to God knows where.

I know this probably sounds silly to you, and more often than not, I find myself laughing at the notion that anything like that possibly exists. Nevertheless, I always find myself looking up to the open attic when I walk into the garage, and not bothering to look back when I rush out of it.

Rest In Peace, Mr. Williams


O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

                         But O heart! heart! heart!

                            O the bleeding drops of red,

                               Where on the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

                         Here Captain! dear father!

                            The arm beneath your head!

                               It is some dream that on the deck,

                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

                            But I with mournful tread,

                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.