I pour my heart into the shit that I put out here. It may not be super new, but at some point I did pour my heart into it. I have no problem revealing myself in what I write and showing my true goals. I would love to be a famous writer. I would love to see some of my bigger writing turned into movies and TV shows and whatever else it may be. For now, I work to push through the ideas of grandeur and instead write new pieces or edit the ones that I have or send my stuff to agents or blah, blah, blah… but I promise that I poured my heart into this tiny little short just the same.

Scott McLunatic

Another invention, idea and creation. Another attempt, trial and effort. I throw another finger into the trash, then get right back to it again.

 The trash can is overflowing with torn ligaments, bones and muscles. The stench of trying is starting to make the paint peel from the mildew covered walls. Maggots keep eating away at the wounds on my body, making them tingle in an unwelcomed, uncomfortable way.

I tear another piece away from my body, this time a toe. It bounces from the overflowing trash and lands next to it, promptly covered by the bugs. They bite, chew and gnaw until only bone is left. Another missing piece is nothing that I can’t handle. It doesn’t bother me much.

I take another shot, this time it fails just as much as the last. It was bigger than the last. I skip past the fingers and throw my whole hand into the bin. It makes a sad, hollow sound as it bounces from the already exposed bones of other lost limbs.

The rotting flesh stings my nose hairs, but that just makes me try harder, pushing all of my remaining body to the limit until smoke starts to fill the room. I feel the fire touch my legs, and instead of stomping it out, I let it consume me. My legs burn before the bugs can get to it and that gives me a sick sense of thrill. It almost feels like I’m living through the flames that consume me.

Before I know it, I have to throw another limb into the trash, but as I look down, there isn’t anything left. My fingers and toes. My hands and feet. My arms and legs. Everything’s gone, except for the ghost of a man who would discard every bit of his body, just to touch the ounce of soul that’s underneath.