Eventually Morbid

         Why can't I write like, well, like other people? I just think--and tap tap tap away diligently, slowly at the keys of my keyboard, the weight of my fingers coming down like little fallen birds from a dead sky.  When I try to create, is this what happens? Inevitably? All of them are ghastly, morbid things, crawling out of my imagination, clawing at the ground with twisted and gnarled hands, pulling themselves into a graveyard of words that have no future, a deadly pit of literature, predestined to fall headfirst into the electronic recycling bin. Even then, why would I care to save a useless, dead thing?
         It will all die. The whole world will die, so what's the point? In a few hundred years from now, everyone I have ever known, ever loved, ever thought about, will all be dead. And the people of the future will not know me. They will not tell tales around a campfire about my acts of good, or strength. No one will look back fondly at my image, my face, my personality, and miss me, wish that I was somehow still alive. if on the off-chance that somehow, somewhere, my name would have been saved in a journal, a movie, a game or riddle, or if it was just inside the cover of a book that time decided for whatever reason not to disintegrate into a trillion tiny molecules of infinitely fine dust, it wouldn't matter. No one would care at all about me. No one would care about a name that they did not recognize; a name out of time.

         A small child with soft brown hair and the smile of an angel is running and hiding, engaged in a particularly exciting game of hide-and-seek. She trots quickly down a flight of stairs, searching in the musty and darkened basement for a suitable hiding place where Daddy would never think to look. Every inch of the concrete floor and damp wooden wall had a layer of cobweb and mildew, and as she scrunched up her nose, the angel face child took a disgusted step backward. A noise like the scuffle of a sneaker on linoleum floor made her start, her head whipped up to where the door stood open, shouting at any passer-by that this was where she went! Come and find her! She was in here, and doors don't open on their own! She raced up the small set of stairs, and snapped the door shut. She zipped back down and frantically searched for a hole or break in the dust and grime as footsteps warned her of her immediate fate. At last-- a small bookshelf had provided a small cubby-like shelf that she could squeeze into if she held her breath, which she had planned to do anyways-- considering the moldy smell that hung in the air with a consistency that was similar to unset jell-o. Seconds ticked by as the footsteps crossed back and forth in front of the closed door, looking from room to room. They weren't growing any louder, or getting any quieter, for that matter.
         Half a minute. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. before thirty-five seconds had passed the little child's face started to turn a shade of red-purple usually reserved for beets or plums. Before she fainted she decided to breathe. She let out the air in a very intense, very loud, whoosh, like that of a balloon that was let go right before it should have been tied. The sudden change in her body shape shifted the bookcase and sent a precariously placed book toppling from another shelf that was directly above the child's head. A small, leather-bound journal fluttered down like a falling pigeon and hit the angel child on the top of her skull. The book connected with a quiet thump that made the little girl shriek in surprise and pain. It dropped on the floor, falling open randomly, nearly ineligible scrawl covering most of the exposed page. The shocking sound was not the shriek that had slipped out of her mouth but the pounding of heavy footsteps that were coming in her direction.
         Belatedly, the little girl realized that her shriek of alarm had done exactly that-- alarmed. The feet came down hard on the creaky wooden steps--they hadn't been creaky until now, and they quickly marched to the spot that the child still hid. Hands grabbed at the little angel, taking her into a warm embrace, then holding her at an examining distance as a deep voice asked inside her head fervent questions such as, are you okay? What was that shriek? Are you hurt? As she answered the questions in a cherubic but sour voice, she pouted at the face that looked at her closely. Another question. What's wrong? She answered disappointedly;
         "You found me so quickly. You didn't even have to look after I made that shriek. It's not fair, that means you won because of an accident." Her pouting lip stuck out a bit more, and there was a deep, rumbling, soundless laugh that resounded in her mind that the child frowned at. "It's not fair," she repeated, arms now crossed over her flat chest. You're right, as usual. Was the reply, still full of silent laughter. The tiny angel snorted dismissively, as if to say, of course I'm right, I always am, and then looked down at the open book. She stared at it like she was trying to burn holes into the bound pages, but sadly, she thought, it's not working. A set of large, warm, brown eyes followed her hard gaze, and soft hands picked up the antique leather book. The caramel-colored hands held it gingerly, and a deep, smooth voice echoed in her thoughts as he read from the text.
         ....what's the point? in a few hundred years from now, everyone I have ever known, ever loved, ever thought about, will all be dead. And the people of the future will not know me... No one will remember my name...if on the off-chance that somehow, somewhere, my name would have been saved in a journal, ...or if it was just inside the cover of a book that time decided for whatever reason not to disintegrate into a trillion tiny molecules of infinitely fine dust, it wouldn't matter...
         The voice faded away as the meaning sunk in. This was not a happy book, not a book that one should read to the mindof  a small angelic child. The hands took ahold of the cover, and looked at the inside. There, in tiny almost illegible scratch was a name. the author. Huh. went the silent voice, I guess it doesn't matter. Suddenly, warm brown eyes looked up from the page, and fixed on the little angel-girl. This is the book that hit you in the head? She nodded. Thank goodness it didn't do any damage. Did you learn anything from it? She nodded vigorously. He raised an eyebrow, half joking, half expectant.
         "I learned not to hide in the basement. Too ewwy."  A low, soft chuckle. A tiny hand shot out, and grabbed onto his, pulling him along, to the door that stood open at the top of the stairs and let the warm glow of afternoon light trickle down the steps, patiently waiting to envelope the odd couple. Before the pair of large feet stopped resisting against the little angel's tugs and demands, they stepped back to the bookshelf and hands gently placed the journal on an empty, dusty, wooden shelf. Then the feet gave in and allowed themselves to be tugged up the stairs, out to a life that did not again cross the path of that book. The small, brown, leather-bound journal sat on the shelf for many more years, collecting dust, collecting time, and going unnoticed.