Have you ever been so hungry that food talked to you, I have, and this is that story.

I’m hungry, but what do I choose—from somewhere in the distance I hear a whisper.

Choose me, while other foods may snap-crackle-pop—I sizzle.  Imagine a late night craving and a midnight rendezvous.  You head for the kitchen where I wait for you—tender, juicy, and plump, longing for your gentle touch to bring me into perfection.

Piercing moonlight dances through the pitch black of night, shimmering its magic upon the shiny utensils that lay before you.  You reach in the cabinet and pull out that old black skillet handed down through the generations.  You place it on the stove with the clank of cold steel upon the burner.  You ignite the flame with a whoosh, and three pats of pure golden delight start to sizzle.

You make your way to where I wait, and with a glimmer of lust in your eyes, you open my cold dark coffin and wake me from my slumber.  I am your cowboy steak; two-pounds of pure American beef waiting for your direction.

As a whiff of creamy delight tickles your nostrils, you know it’s almost time.  A quick rub of olive oil, made in a little province in Tuscany—a dash of sea salt, a splash of red wine vinegar, and a hint of coarse ground pepper—and into the skillet I go.  Ssssssss

A quick flip and you reduce the flames and wait.  I am all you need, but a simple salad will make a nice threesome.  A crisp romaine, some leafy greens, and a blood moon tomato halved and quartered—a dash of salt, a hint of lemon and creamy garlic, and soon—we will be together.

You light a candle, and pour a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, and it is time.

You plate me, take your seat, and with a gentle slice begin to dine.  As flickers of moonbeams pierce the night, you notice a crimson blood start to trickle down one side of your mouth—warm and soft like a Vampires kiss—you giggle with anticipation of what’s to come, and in the still of the night, you feast.

I know what I’ll be having.

Terry A. Elkins (whyguy)

At times, being an aspiring writer is not always easy, the words don’t always flow forth onto the page as easily as I would like, so I go in search of inspiration where I can find it.  On one particular day when my words eluded me I went in search of a candle, what I found was something buried deep within me, and when my writing was complete I would be transformed.

I know I have one, I’m sure of it.  I ruffle through the drawer—searching for that piece of inspiration that will light the way to my imagination.  Six-tangled-electrical-cords, three tacks, forgotten pictures of birthdays past, and student Picasso’s tattered and worn—there it is—one lone stick of inspiration.

I place the fragile remnant before me, its cold,  fleshy remains dripping with waxy tears, and I wonder how much life remains in this savior of the night.  I peel away flakes of burnt memories as I remember the dark nights when the children were scared and we told stories to pass the time until the light-of-day, or the power company saved us from the fear of night.

One strike, a whiff of sulfur, and it is time to begin.

As I stare at the flame that flickers in the light of day, I am saddened at how the golden flame of hope seems dull, sad, and eerily still.  It cast no foreboding shadow, brings no warmth, and for the moment—no inspiration.

How much has my mind become like this candle, the synapses hardly used these days, withering away into nothings.  How long will it be before the light that once burnt so brightly in me fades away and I too become used up, with nothing left to give the world but a few last flickers from an old man who has been used up by ravages of time?

The flame dances across my soul, burning deeply within the far reaches of the memories of the man I used to be. Drawing up memories of what could have been, if only I had dared to dream.  If only, if only, if only… I had dared to use my talents in the way they were meant to be.

A candle no more belongs in the light of day than I belong in the darkness of a job that has never, will never, and can never appreciate who I am.  As the flame begins to wane, my flame begins to burn brighter. Maybe, just maybe, I can find a way to come out of the shadows and follow the beacon of light to my dreams, and one day call myself a writer.

Today is that day, I am no longer an aspiring write—today I am a writer.

Terry A. Elkins (whyguy)

Phillip Kendall woke in the darkness in a cold sweat, as the thunderous crack of the storm jolted him from his tormented sleep.  His rugged features now strained and worn glistened to the rhythmic beat of time as the blue indigo lights on the radio flickered in the darkness of the bunker .

His frantic pulse pounded in his head like drums of war as he tried to get hold of his thoughts.  How long had it been he thought—had it been hours, days, or even weeks since he took refuge in the bunker of the abandoned ranch house that once belonged to his father.

He struggled to his feet and released the hydraulic cylinder of the two-ton blast door, and he headed to the surface.  He stood in horror as he gazed toward the city just a few miles away.  The sky was burnt ash, and glowed eerily as flickers of destruction illuminated the sky of the burning city.  Phillip fell to his knees as the pale wind of August brought with it the stench of decay.  He threw back his head and his body clenched as he cursed the harbinger of death that had brought with it only destruction.

It began to rain, and as these heavenly tears fell  from the sky they washed away his fear and his body went limp, as if to say, I give up.  As he lay there, he heard a glimmer of hope crackle from the bunker below.  The radio hissed, and in a broken voice, the announcement came:  To all survivors, make your way e-st, to gr-nt-wood, there will be shel-er, fo-d, medical -sstanc….  Phillip hadn’t caught all the message before the radio fell silent, but he knew he must head east, he must find others, and he must find a way to help.

Phillip was a scientist, and he knew the government was going to need his help fighting the thing that came from the sky.

Terry A. Elkins  (whyguy)

This is another story I have been working on, for now, just a taste.