I said to myself.
Why not write something positive for a change. I'm always bitching, pissing, and moaning. Just for once write something with a positive outlook.
I can't do it... I told myself. I'm the Merchant of Venom. The name alone gives me away.
I thought this:
Hemingway once bet a guy he could write a story using only six words. I was intrigued. They laid their money down on the bar. Even for Hemingway this was an impossible feat. There is no way a story can be written in six words. However, the guy lost the bet.
If he could write a story in only six words certainly I can write something on a positive note.
I can do this.
I am now standing in front of a brick wall. A pickaxe is leaning against it. Should I pick it up? I must I thought... a pickaxe is what I need. I grabbed the smooth shiny wood handle, feeling top-heavy in my hands. This wall looms in front of me like the look I got from the grandma clerk, when I was young man, buying prophylactics in the drug store. She had that...I know what you're up to sting in her eye.
There it stood. Directly in my path. High, solid, and I didn't know how thick. I spread my legs, arched my back, both hands low on the handle, swung a mighty swing like ringing the bell at the County Fair. It hit with a smash with no split only a few sharp red fragments grudgingly falling away.
This wall is coming down. I don't care what it takes. I grabbed the pickaxe and reared back on my heals.
Wait a minute stupid... You can't bring this wall down in one whack!
The hell with it I said. I pounded and pounded without mercy until exhausted I fell to one knee.
A jagged funnel shape in the wall was beginning to form. I looked closer and there was a small hole about the size of a BB that pierced the other side. I tried to see through the tiny opening but all I could see was a fine white point of light. I needed to see more.
I swung the pickaxe missing my intended target, the brunt of the blow striking the side of the funnel hole, before ricocheting down to the opening making it larger to the size of a dime.
I looked through. Then turned my head away rubbing my eyes. Looked through again. It was Ernest Hemingway. He had a sign in his left hand. It said: Get a life.
I stepped aside again to rub my eyes, and then nestled my check once more on the peephole and saw his right arm partially away from his body and had to tilt my head a little to see better through the hole. I saw his right hand clearly now. It was another sign. It said....For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.
Then I woke up.