You hear often that writing is a craft. The great thing about this is that this means you continue to grow as a writer. You’re ability improves, you become stronger and more confident in your style and prose. (At least, I hope I am). That being said, sometimes I look at my previous work and think “I can do better than that”. Maybe that’s arrogant, maybe not. Here’s what this translates to: I’m going to rewrite some of my old work. A couple of stories I’ve had here in my library are coming down, even though they’ve been published in magazines previously.
I’ve thought about doing this for awhile. There are some elements that I really am not crazy about in the stories and now I’m going to fix it. The timing is perfect, since the good folks over at Inkitt are having their Sci-Fi contest going right now. I just hope I can finish before the deadline (July 27th). (They also have a few more days going for their Mystry/Thriller contest if you want to get in on it)
So, that’s what going on. Now, enough delay. On with the story. Remember to click here if you need to catch up.
The Experiment (Cont)
“So, this isn’t just a shadow that follows you around. When did it reveal itself to be a demon to you?” So condescending. The good doctor’s voice drips with it.
“It didn’t reveal itself. I’m just…what else would it be?” I stand up so fast that my chair nearly falls over. I walk to the window and stare outside. Out into the sunshine, the calm sky with wisps of clouds and one of the bluest skies I’ve seen in a long time. I close my eyes again and drink it in. My agitation ebbs away.
“Robert. I think we really need to discuss this more. Come sit down.”
“Discuss what? Demons, or my mental stability?” I open my eyes, but I don’t turn around. The window stretches from floor to ceiling and I can see Dr. Sheffield’s reflection. He sits there, smug and judging. He’s already made up his mind about me. I can see it on his face. He just wants to determine how far gone I am now.
I’m not doing this. He can go to hell for all I care. I slam both palms of my hands on the window. “I am not imagining this. Why can’t you understand this? I am not my mother! I am not losing my mind! I am not…”
“Uh…” The doctor makes a sound like all the air was sucked out of him. He starts to gurgle and choke.
I spin around. “Holy…”
Dr. Sheffield convulses in his chair. His eyes stare at me with a wild, terrified look. His hands grip the arms of the chair and his knuckles are nearly translucent. His body shakes, and then he falls with his chair. He lands face first on the carpet and moves no more.
“Dr. Sheffield?” I run over to him and kneel down to check his pulse. Nothing. There’s no blood. What happened?
An all too familiar laugh. “Oh Robert. That was fun, so fun.” The growling voice. I turn and I can see it in the far corner of the room.
“What? What did you…”
“What did I do? No, Robert. What did you do? Imagine what people will say…you come to see the doctor, the doctor is dead. And you say a demon did it…oh, this is delicious…”
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