KZ Writes Good
The internet is a huge bathroom wall, and any halfwit with a keyboard and a connection has an opportunity to scrawl on it. Take me, for instance. My name is KZ. For a good time, come find me at Prosaic Shades of Gray.
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Messages from the Dark
Inexplicably, I woke up this morning with a large scratch running lengthwise down my chest and stomach. It wasn’t there before I went to bed last night. My friends, if you didn’t believe me before about the authenticity of my previous ghost wound, then get a load of this.
Yeah, yeah, I know — I’m getting a little soft in the middle. But check out that gnarly scratch. It really stings. How the hell did it get there? The skin on my chest was smooth and unscathed the night before when I went to bed.
At first, I was inclined to place the blame on my cats, Momo, and Madam Beasley Meowington (Maddie for short). They’ve never really gotten along, and they do often chase each other around the apartment when Diana and I are trying to sleep at night.
It’s not hard to imagine those cats chasing each other around the bedroom during the dead of night. In the heat of the chase, perhaps Momo jumped up to the surface of the bed and decided to use my chest as a landing pad. That’s just what cats do. Yet as convenient as it might be to simply blame the cats, there are a couple problems with this explanation.
First, how in the world was I not woken up by an eleven-pound cat thrashing my flesh while he skidded to an inconsiderate claw-stop across my chest? Like I said, this wound really stings. Whatever it was that scratched me, it got me deep. Second, I sleep with my blankets tucked neatly underneath my chin, so I’m not sure how likely it is that a cat would be able to penetrate this protective layer above me. Third and finally, take a look at the t-shirt I was wearing on the night of the alleged cat attack.
There isn’t a single scratch to be found on that shirt. You’d figure the shirt would show at least some sign of wear after an incident like that. The physical evidence just doesn’t seem to support a cat attack.
So, what gives? Something clearly doesn’t add up around here. I’m not convinced that I should attribute this wound to my cats, and it’s not as if I sleep with knives in my bed. Perhaps there are some things in this world that simply defy rational explanation. Perhaps some of those pissed off ghosts whom I’ve been telling you about have decided to reach out to me this Halloween season in order to send me a message. The spooks are upon us, my friends. Beware of the gasping night, the cackles of specters, those diversions of fright. As we draw ever closer to All Hallows Eve, draw your loved ones closer, and remain ever vigilant of the talons that strike out at our feeble tendons and tissue under the cover of shadow.