Selection from the Horror Novella I'm Not Writing

Mine dreams, lo this past fortnight, have been haunted...haunted by a spoon. A ghastly piece of silverware stained ebon like a Stygian Night after what one must assume was an eternity steeped in the fiery booya cauldrons of some fell minion of one Dark Lord or another. Or perhaps North End Lawrence's crockpot. Hard to say. But it'd be just like that foul bastard to leave a spoon unwashed for years on end and then turn it unto an object to clutter and stalk my travels in Nod.





This Morpheus-tic spoon perches precariously 'pon the hood of a repossessed Le Car (like a malefic hood ornament of some sort) next to other items as if an impromptu picnic were in the offing (with me as the main course?); this passe' jalopy double-parked on the very banks of the River Styx with Charon the Boatman keeping watch of the proceedings (or possibly eye-balling the bucket of fried chicken? Poling his deathly 'gondola' hither and non must surely work up an appetite...who could blame him for his peckish ogling if that, in fact, is what it is).





This nightmarish flatware will surely spell my doom...but first it will enable me to partake in some of that bitchin' Mephistophelean cole slaw. I won't go down without a nosh...demonic spoon be damned...oh, wait...er...



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