Where Words Thrive…

Sometimes, sometimes you come across a site along the vast, seemingly endless galactic stream of the internet that makes you pause and peruse its offerings.

Written Words Never Die, by Eric Alagan, is such a site. Please do, by all means, stop in and engage your senses with his exquisite words.

The reason I mention this site to you is because there you will find a trove of writings that will allow you to contemplate your own writings, a place where you can read varied offerings that speak both to your soul and to your Muse.

Not only will you find choice compositions, passages and word play that will amuse and intrigue, but also heartfelt comments made by the author to any and all replies sent his way.

Eric is that kind of gentleman. He responds to all who comment on his blog. And his words are kind, encouraging, and spot on.

Recently, I accessed an almost year-old post of his, one called ‘Wolf‘, and by reading his words it prompted me to compose something of my own.

But not only that. After posting my response to his own poignant creation, that in turn, prompted me to continue the vein of my rather brief post.

If you have already gone to his original blog listed above, here is my reply to Mr. Alagan’s own potent post:

The Cellar

“Goddamn laundry’, Jake thought.

And then something moved. Off in the dark corner. Some thing stirred.

Jake took to the stairs.

Below, the thing scraped and cackled.

It began to climb.

Can you see how my initial 33-word reply can possibly become more?

Now what, you may ask, prompted me to arrive at this particular story line. Well, let me tell you, if you’ll allow me to bend your ear for a spell. Mind you, it won’t be terribly long. Here it goes:

We live in a 213 year-old house. Needless to say the basement–or cellar–has seen its fair share of comings and goings.

Since we have lived here, from June of of this year we have, on occasion, had to visit this dark, dank, impenetrable sub floor.

At first, the lights down there worked. But gradually, for no apparent reason, the bulbs gave up their ghosts. No more light.

So now, still on occasion, the power to our living room goes out. Poof! And guess who gets to descend those dark, scary stairs to fumble about the fuse box?

Um, that would be me.

So this is what prompted me to continue with the preceding 33-word story line.

I imagine, as I descend those old, creaky, musty stairs, that a hideous creature resides down there. Something foul, rotten, evil.

Something waiting for me.

As I retreat into the depths of this cellar, with a feeble flashlight in hand, the fear and terror grips my nape. My dim light casts only so much light. And in only one direction.

As I stumble about in the darkness, I can’t help but imagine this creature lurching about down there with me, unseen, a dwarf-like, hobbling gnome with a huge head and immense glowing eyes, with fangs and clicking claws that can’t wait to sever my carotid.

I move on, wildly swinging my light about. It is at this juncture when I finally reach the fuse box when I suddenly arc my light behind me and find…nothing.

Relieved I turn back, find the switch, and flip it on. And that is the moment, when I turn once again, to find this gibbering goblin, this ghastly diminutive monster, clacking his claws and snapping his jaws at me, giggling and laughing, his foul, hot breath upon me, and feel the hot searing thrust of a rotten hand into my jugular when I…

…make it up the stairs, panting, slam the door behind me and find no spurting blood about me.

Now that is what a powerful prompt can do for you.

And that is why I return, again and again, to Mr. Alagan’s fine site.

Stop on by. You never what will make you compose your next line of prose.

Just make sure the light is on.

Copyright Paul Grignon, 2013, All Rights Reserved.



2 responses to “Where Words Thrive…

  1. Dear Paul

    Man, that’s scary and I wonder how many would want to spend a lonely night in your home after reading it.

    Thank you for your ever kind words about my writing/blog – you are too generous.

    I’ve read this post twice and keep coming back and wonder what drove you to rent this place in the first place. As it is, most old houses harbour many memories and sighs. It’s scary enough to be living far from neighbours but to have a basement that goes ‘bump’ at night. The power failures are probably perfectly explanable unless one lets his imagination take off.

    All good wishes and don’t forget the garlic, silver bullets and crucifix 🙂

  2. Dear Eric,

    I’ve opted for a good supply of garlic and bullets silver, but have eschewed the cross. I think the former two will suffice to ward off the bogey-man.

    I can never be too generous expounding upon your own blog. Many more folk should be privy to your writings, and I’m just one of your fans who likes to promote excellent sites. 🙂

    Thank YOU for reading–and re-reading–my post. Julie and I have always been attracted to old houses (this one, by far, is the oldest we’ve ever lived in) and, despite the few irritations, it is a nice house. No ghosts reside here, unlike our house a few years ago that harbored a mischievous poltergeist. We named him George.

    I suppose to some degree my latest post has something to do with a bogey-man, albeit, in human form. ‘Twould have been rather nice to help heal sundry folk with sweets and joe but, alas, the slightest hint of fear and hesitancy, unfortunately, linger.

    By the way, when the power went out the last time, we were in the midst of watching the horror flick ‘The Conjuring’. Not the best movie to be watching when the lights fail. (Not a bad film, although the ending was rather cheesy.)

    I bid you a pleasant evening, my friend, and I look forward to perusing your work.

    Warmest holiday wishes your way,
    Paul 🙂

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