Write About The Monsters Under The Bed
I won’t do it.
As I told My Companion this morning, there’s a reason I do not write stories of horror, preferring to write of intrigue and mystery and romance instead.
The #FreeWriteChallenge writing prompts are fun. No lie. I like to check the next day’s prompt before I go to bed so that I have the germ of an idea when I wake up. I marinate the ideas while I take the dog on his morning constitutional, and then words meet screen and you, my dear readers, are hopefully entertained.
Not today, no, thank you.
When I read the prompt, my brain went immediately to Metallica. Yeah. James Hetfield and Lars Ulrich are the monsters under the bed, as far as I’m concerned, jumping out with a Cease and Desist letter for Napster. Dudes look and sound scary, and I hold grudges.
Enter Sandman, my ass. Enter attorneys.
Side note: Jason Newsted from Metallica went to my high school. We were several years apart, and we only almost met once, after he had joined the band (I was passed out in a back bedroom when he showed up at a party). I have his personal page on my personal Facebook page and it amazes me how much prestige that has granted me in certain circles. No, I do not have a special affinity for Metallica due to this fact. End note.
I have a vivid imagination. I’m sure people have picked up on that, if they’ve read the things I’ve written.
I also lucid dream at times. Not all the time, but when it happens it’s awesome and fun.
If you combine those two facts with this morning’s writing prompt, you may understand why I just don’t want to go there. It would take me three days, probably and maybe at a minimum, to bring myself back from the Scary Place.
There’s a reason I don’t write horror.
When I was a child, I was sure as anything that there was a giant dog in my grandmother’s basement. I had dreamt it, you see, and it felt more real than anything I’d experienced in my short life.
Her basement was dark, with cobwebs in corners. She stored lots of things down there, mysterious things under blankets. There was a back bedroom and I firmly believed the dog lived there. They normally kept that door closed, and the few times I saw it open was traumatizing.
The dog was a room sized Saint Bernard. It wasn’t mean, from what I recall, it merely wanted to lick us to pieces. Probably literally. It didn’t actually look like a real Saint Bernard either, it looked like a giant stuffed version. It was too big to make it up the stairs to the main house.
Somehow that made it scarier.
Up until I was in my late 20s, I had an uneasy feeling in my stomach when my bad ass/kick ass gramma would send me down there to drop something off or bring it up.
Ugh, I used to do maintenance on my uncle’s computer down there. Nope. I’m good. I celebrated the day they moved the desktop upstairs.
In the primetime of the scary factor in my life – aka childhood – the stories of alligators in sewers were going around. One has to love urban legends. I had dreams of those things chasing me as well, though we lived nowhere near a sewer.
The lake I grew up on used to have piranhas dumped into it on a semi-regular basis. I have no idea why. If you combine the alligator urban legends with our local rural legends … well, everyone is lucky I ever swam in that lake or sat on a toilet or used a sink.
I used to dream the alligators were under the bed. Vividly dream the alligators were under the bed. My brother, as awesome as he is, occasionally would check under it for me when I was truly losing my shit over it.
Sometimes I still have those dreams, and wake up with the same panic. I have yet to ask My Companion to check for me.
I think, think, I went general enough in this posting to not trigger myself. Fingers crossed.
What scares you, my friends? As usual, comments are open.