Murder he wrote.

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It was a dark rainy night. Flashes of lightening lit up the room. Apart from the sporadic external interruptions, the only other source of light came from the ascetic glow of the computer monitor. The steady light illuminating the face of man crouched over it with a sickly luminosity and unflickering shadow.

Sam stopped typing at looked at the screen.

“It’s all been done before,” he whispered to himself.

He had just written a bestselling book, but now the publishers wanted more and he just couldn’t think of anything. He had the one thing most authors dread: writer’s block.

He held the delete button and watched the rain and lightning disappear from the screen, vanishing backwards far quicker than he’d managed to type them.

“Now what?” he thought to himself.

He stood from his chair and walked towards the window, placing his hands in his pockets. It wasn’t dark and it certainly wasn’t raining. In fact the sun was high in the sky and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen.

Sam sighed and walked away from the view. His office was only small, one wall a large book case, although there weren’t many books on there. A two seater sofa was pushed against the other wall, and his desk was pushed into the corner beside the window.

He bent down and looked at his small collection of his books, placing his hand on his last work as if to try and get some inspiration, but then decided against it and stood back up.

Sam turned back to the blank screen on his monitor, the small icon flashing at him, waiting for him to write long and beautiful words.

But it wasn’t going to happen, not today.

He opened the door and stepped into the living room, closing the office door behind him. Tapping the side of his legs with his hands he wandered through his house looking for something to do.

Boredom was starting to set in, so he went into the kitchen to make something to eat. He opened the fridge and stared at the contents for a few minutes before closing it again, then looked in the cupboard and decided on a tin of soup.

Five minutes later he sat at the table with a bowl of hot tomato soup in front of him, a few chunks of fresh bread alongside. Picking up the spoon he started to slurp it up, and along with dipping the bread in the soup he soon finished it.

As he picked up the bowl it slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor. Splashes of red soup splattered across the floor and up the kitchen cupboards. Suddenly he jumped back. Flashes of deep red swam in his eyes; it wasn’t soup anymore but blood. He closed his eyes and shook his head, but it hadn’t helped.  The entire kitchen looked to be splattered with blood. He ran to the sink and turned the tap on; blood poured into the sink. Sam spun around taking in the kitchen as it changed before his eyes. Pools of blood covered the table and the floor, blood dripped from the knife that he’d just cut the bread and more was running down the walls. His stomach churned and he darted to the sink and vomited, but it wasn’t soup that come up it was a thick red and bloody ooze.

Sam ran from the kitchen and into the living room, taking in deep breaths. After a few moment he headed for the front door and hurried outside. Trying to calm himself down he pulled out the cigarettes from his pocket, and with shaking hands managed to ignite it.

A few minutes later Sam built up the courage to step back in the house. Once inside he walked towards the kitchen door and slowly pushed it open.

The blood had gone; there was nothing there, just the smashed bowl on the floor and the few splashes of soup. Letting a sigh of relief out he walked into the kitchen.  Ignoring the bowl, he went straight for the brandy in the cupboard.

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