The inspiration for my latest writing project "Time To Go" was unfortunately found while I was channel surfing earlier this year on Direct TV. The channel in question was called "Audience" and it was sponsored by the Smithsonian. The movie in question was from Australia, but I don't remember the title. All I remember was a one minute scene in which a criminal confronted a woman who stopped by at his apartment about whether she had talked to the police. He moved over to where she was sitting, brushed her hair out of her face, then covered her nose and mouth with his hand. That one scene managed to stick with me for the past four or five months, until around mid July, when I decided to write a story using that method of dispatching someone to the hereafter. As of the date of this post, I have fifteen pages and a shade over 9K words written
My friends, here are the opening paragraphs to my latest short story "Time To Go".
I took a couple of hard sniffs, and after chewing back the vomit so I wouldn't asphyxiate, I knew it was time to go. You would think that after experiencing twenty-three straight days of pure hell, I would long be used to the smell by now. But I wasn't. In fact, after twenty-three days, my sense of smell was so amped up that I could tell whether or not a mosquito was draining blood from a human or an animal.
It really didn't matter much to me that I was being abused. So long as the two gorillas were satisfied in using my body as a punching bag and a deformed sex toy, I was happy. I was happy that Davy, in his own sick way, really liked me. Or obsessed over me. I don't remember which anymore. After twenty-three days, I was just happy that I didn't join my friend Angela on the most frightening trip of her short life.