lacey-books

Long casted shadows danced in the background, as a man squibbled and jotted words on yellow papers. A mere novelty, remnant and ghost that was left to age away along with the forgotten theater, a man grasped for inspiration to salvage what was left of his soul. Abandoned in the squalid room, Pxan was left hauntedly in the furthest corners of insanity that bubbled in his mind. No one would listen to his plight, denouncing him and claiming his mind was not right. Even though the world left him with nothing, turning their backs to him, he knew the books would never betray him in the same fashion. Faceless pages and books yet to be read ogled puppy eyes, ready to be penned by the madman. “Pxan! Pxan! Over here! To me!” Clamored the unpublished manuscripts. Pxan’s fingers quivered nervously, thoughts of failure flooded his mind. Wanting to surrender to the pressure. “No!” He cried. “I’ve had enough of writing.” Books with eyes all stared at him, begging for the tales to be written. Their pleaful eyes were all that Pxan needed to be moved to writing again. The man sighed and raised his pen again, stroking the first letters of inspiration that bore fruit from his mind. A maddening tale of a policeman, cultists and a violent revenge…