1/2 writing prompt

Standing in the middle of a cobble stone street he looked at his clothes strangley as he heard someone yelling from a house in front of him. Lights danced taking notice of the gas lamp flame flickering for a street light. The yelling louder now, he crept to the window, peeking in to see a white headed man yelling at nobody as he dabbed a pen in an ink jar and wrote on the wall as he yelled with every stroke of his pen. Raising an eyebrow he wondered what possessed the old man to do this, looking around to see that he evidently had been writing on the walls for a long time as there wasn’t hardly a bare spot left that hadn’t been written on, wondering if he yelled like that every time he wrote and what his neighbors must think. Squinting, he tried to see what he was writing or what he had written, but it went every which way on the walls and what he could see, made no sense to him at all. The old man suddenly yelled again and vanished out the door to another room. Curious, he ran from window to window, finding the old man in the kitchen, yelling again as he wrote across the kitchen countertop frantically, dipping his ink so fast from his writing that he sometimes splattered ink everywhere, not seeming to care, it was like he was obsessed, from watching him in getting everything written down as fast as he could. He was bewildered and couldn’t figure it out, thinking the old man must have gone mad. Following him from room to room by his lantern he carried with him, fascinated by him all night, finally ending up early in the morning leaning on a windowsill as he sat on the back porch steps, watching the old man as he had quit yelling now, scribble, yet mumble on the wooden slat floor of the screened back porch. “Who are you? What are you doing in my yard?” As he was jarred awake by the old man he had been watching all night violently shaking him. He didn’t have time to answer as the old man made a sour face, then pulling him by the sleeve, inside his house as he shut and locked the door.  Calling to him as he drug him through the house, pleading him not to hurt him as he was only twelve. As he pulled him through the house mumbling loudly of nobody understood, he noticed that every room, walls, floor and ceiling were covered with ink in words. Who was this man and had he gone off the deep end doing all this, he must have been doing it for years.  With a jerk, he was shoved through a door, shoved in,  hitting the floor, as the door was slammed shut and the sound of several locks were heard, knowing he was locked in and alone. Turning quickly, he found the window was sealed shut with some kind of iron shutter, only a bed, a closet door and a lamp. Otherwise the room was barren. Yelling and banging to no avail till he was almost hoarse, he finally fell asleep, crying himself to sleep in fear. Losing track of time as he couldn’t tell day from night, he felt he could have been in there for days. He could hear the old man yelling like the first time he had come to look in his window many times, knowing he must be writing. Having tugged and pried on the closet door for who knows how long, his foot against the wall, he tugged with all his might, having used a piece of metal at the door jam, he flew backward as the door came open, lying there sprawled out on the floor, he just stared at what was in the closet, in the only room in the house with no writing and bare white walls. Suddenly realizing as he stared at the thousand of neatly stacked empty ink bottles, noting that the old man was not yelling anymore. The door burst open as the old man just stood there wide eyed and looking at him, then softly speaking to him. “It’s time, follow me.” Following him, his hands running lightly across the words and such written on the wall as he went, trying to see what all he might have scribbled on them, but no two areas made sense or said anything that matched what it was beside. Standing in the living room, he had noted that every windows was now covered with the same steel shutters form the room, save the main living room window that looked out the front of the house. IT was night, the gas lights flickering, as a horse drawn carriage went by, but the old man just looked at him, seemingly surprised he didn’t yell to the people passing by compelled at him no too. “Who are you?” Turning to the old man as the two of them just looked at each other. Without a word, the old man kicked a brick on the floor to him, picked up a lamp and just stood there. Then softly spoke as he picked up the oil lantern beside him on the end table. “It’s finished.” Holding out in his other hand an empty ink bottle. Setting it down and reaching in his shirt pocket and handing him his pen he had seen him dipping in the ink bottles over and over again. “Take it, it’s yours. Create what’s in you now.” Then dropping the lantern, the house burst in to flame as he pointed to the brick and sat down smiling. Frantic, he tossed the brick out and jumped out  startled awake in his own bed in his own time, knowing it was his imagination saying create all along in a dream. Staring at the picture of the old man in his dream beside his bed, Mark Twain.