No Crossroad For Me

This very short story was written over three years ago during one of my slumps and quite possibly done during the very early hours of the morning. I originally posted it to just to see what kind of feedback I would get. I had no confidence in fiction writing (and I still don’t).


Man walking down a road

I didn’t make my deal at some dusty, out of the way crossroad marked with a Joshua Tree. I am not Robert Johnson, nor am I anyone with a definite idea of what I wanted from my deal. It was vague and ambiguous. I was spawn for the bastard, he saw me coming quicker than a bullet train.

I asked for creativity and the ability to manipulate that creativity. I was too open ended with my request. Now I was paying for the fact that I had cut corners again.

Yes I was a creative genius, it didn’t matter what I wanted to do I could do it it instinctively . I had learnt that I had to tone down the ability to show off with my skill. If people saw me pick up a guitar and saw me riff off for an hour or two after claiming that I hadn’t played before, it could cause problems.

That side of things was a piece of piss compared to what the beast had left me with as a “side effect” of unlimited creativity. I had to now share myself with others. Not people in the strictest sense of the word. In every moment that I wasn’t creating something my head was riddled with noises, voices and other stuff that I couldn’t control or get rid of. I saw my doctor, he thought it could be a medical condition. They couldn’t get to the bottom of it. They sent me to the head shrinking man.. he couldn’t work it out.

One night maybe 3 years after making my deal I sat down in my space (it used to be my bedroom, I didn’t do a lot of sleeping these days, too much to keep me awake and distracted.) I picked up a pencil and pad and just started scrawling away to catch a breather from the cacophony in my head. The next thing I know I look down at my pad and the voices in my head had written on the pad

“It’s Time”
“It’s Time.. Do It Now”

Damn the devil man, he had not wanted my soul, he wanted to see how far he could push me before I broke and ended it all.

As I contemplated my options, my free will was gone and the hand that I had used up until a few moments ago to create beauty was now clenched tight with a sharpened pencil gripped tight. The hand drew itself above my head and then snatched it’s way down to my wrist.

It was as if things started going in slow motion.

I couldn’t scream, my mind knew that would be fruitless, besides, my mind was screaming loud enough, my pathetic whimpers wouldn’t have added anything to this party

I live in a house for people who have no one to look out for them and for the people who scream at night for no reason other than the devil man has made a deal with them to see how far he could push them.

Until Next Time…

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Paul Hurwood

Paul is a frustrated entertainer. From a young age he wanted to be Elvis Presley, but Elvis objected to lending out his Jumpsuits at the weekend. As he grew older he tried to be an Actor, things there didn’t go so well either… the spotlights kept missing him.

Now Paul enjoys sitting back and writing about Music, Doctor Who and Mental Health. He has a passion for the blogging platform WordPress and enjoys helping out practically with day to day use of the platform where he can.