Any Excuse Will Do

In a fiction blog, any excuse for not having a new entry will do, won’t it?

As I sat down to write a tale to make the world weep, erratic knocking interrupted my thoughts. The story fled my mind. I rose to see what was causing such a commotion at such an early hour. I opened the door to find no one on the other side of the threshold. I leaned out to look up and down the narrow porch. I even peered at the bushes at the end of the driveway, but they were too scraggly to hide even the thinnest slip of a prankster.

I slowly regained solid ground and paused to look out the door a few seconds longer before I pulled it closed and slipped the deadbolt into place. The knocking resumed. Now it vibrated the floorboards under my feet. I looked down, bewildered. Dust bounced along the floor as the knocking continued. With swift strides, I crossed the floor to the door to the basement.

I paused in the doorway. The dank smell of mold wafted out to deter me, but curiosity beckoned me onward. I cringed as the first step creaked but found the courage to continue down each creaking step. The light from the single bare bulb blinded me as I flipped the switch on the wall at the bottom of the stairs. As my eyes adjusted, I scanned the barren room. Only cobwebs and a few boxes against one wall broke the monotony of chipped concrete and bare rafters. In fact, no way existed for someone to bang on the ceiling. Not even a long-handled broom had been tossed aside in this room of stale air and neglect.

Satisfied, I turned back to the stairs. I took a deep breath before switching off the light. My footsteps pounded on the stairs to announce my return to the living room, yet I still heard a soft giggle as I stepped out into the brightness of the room. As my eyes adjusted to the bright light, the lights went out. I turned toward the light switch. A movement caught my eyes for a second before it disappeared. My attention was drawn to my desk by repetitive clicking.

A tiny little figure crouched over my keyboard. In the glow of the monitor, her frilly skirt sparkled. I could make out tiny flowers twined in the two braids that held her hair back from her thin face. She looked up at me long enough to smile devilishly as she clicked the delete button. Then she was soaring across the room on gossamer wings. I tried to catch her but she managed to slip through a window left ajar to allow the cool night air to wash over me as I worked.

I sat down at my computer, clicking frantically. She had successfully deleted all of my most recent works of fiction. I did not know why. I probably never will, but I knew my readers would not accept such an excuse. What can I do but slave over a better piece for next week?