Week 5 Writing Prompt – When you were little, you could swear there was a monster under your bed, but no one believed you. On the eve of your 30th birthday, you hear noises coming from under your bed once again. The monster is back and has an important message to deliver to you.
WINNER!!! By Richard A. Hernandez
The echoes of his birthday celebration died down. Facebook posts that he individually answered, texts, calls. A busy time for someone with many friends. Now he just wanted to sleep. His belly having been filled with his favorite foods only added to the urgency of his drowsiness.
He turned off the lights and walked to his bed. Pulling back his covers he pulled out his phone and tossed it on the bed before kicking his clothes off and sliding into a comfortable pair of shorts.
He laid down, unlocked his phone and began to dawdle while he let the need for sleep overtake him. He frowned as he saw the battery reach critical. With a quick flick of his wrist he turned on the phone’s light, and searched the floor for his charging cable.
He dropped it. Cursing he reached down for it, and just before his hand reached the device, something snatched it from beneath the bed.
“What the fuck,” he exclaimed as he recoiled in horror.
There was silence that stretched forever.
He listened for a hint of what was underneath his bed, sitting upright and watching the edges of his mattress.
Soft scratches against his hardwood floor and a muffled exhale jogged his memories; nights covered in blankets with eyes squeezed shut. Waiting for it to go away.
“This won’t do,” came the gruff voice, inhuman with the undertone of a growl.
“This won’t do at all.”
He covered his ears in terror. Summoning courage from within, he spoke, “W-who are you, what do you want.”
“We could have been so much . . . you and I. ”
“What are you talking about?”
The monster under the bed shifted bumping the frame, rocking the mattress.
“Sorry,” said the monster. “You made me big.”
“I didn’t make you . . . what do I call you.”
“I don’t know, my creator never named me, he dreamed me into existence and then ignored me for thirty years.”
There was a silence for a time before the monster spoke again.
“Okay, so you’re literally the stuff of nightmares?”
“As you’ve chosen me to be, my creator.”
The birthday boy ran his hands through his hair, his mind spinning.
“Stop that. That unreasonable fear has wasted your talents. Your gift of creation, locked away forever inside a prison of fear.”
The man listened.
“You’ve withered underneath the glow of soul sucking fluorescent lights, mindlessly handled calls from dialers, worked menial tasks while your body broke from the strain all in the name of lesser men and women. I want to be reborn with purpose. Wake up from this stupor and make something of your creativity!”
He woke with the sunlight caressing his face, and stretched. What a crazy dream.
He couldn’t find his phone. Suddenly remembering the events of the night before, he reached over the edge of his bed and slowly lowered himself so he could see beneath his bed.
His phone lie, plugged in, beside a message carved into the hardwood.