THE PROBABILITY OF A HAPPY ENDING

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I just want to be good at writing. I just want to get rid of this curse, this... Writer's block. It's infuriating. My lack of imagination is so degrading. It's grating on my self confidence, which I am almost entirely lacking anyway.

But... Sometimes, when I've been doing something inspiring or creative in itself, I get little bursts of my own creativity. This may be one of those moods, but I doubt I'll carry the feeling through past today.

Even so, here is a little imagery that's been bouncing around my mind.

Enjoy

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The blood.

So much blood.

Oh, so dark and yet simultaneously bright, splashed upon the earth so haphazardly... Oh, the blood.

And... Entrails. An intestine tangled up in the tall grass, the contents of which spilling over dirt and shattered glass, a thick blanket of human waste.

Throbbing muscle, wet and glistening in the half light provided by an all-seeing moon.

Hair. Long rivulets of raven locks, splayed over oil slick concrete.

A siren. An ambulance pulled up but unable to see the scenario so prudently displayed before them. Only able to witness a woman, and injury, and a man claiming to be in concern.

Twitching. Fingers loosened over torn garments. Uncovered skin, naked and pale in the momentary blue and red lights.

The ghost of innocence still imminent, unwilling to dissipate yet also half expectant of the dismissal.

A woman, an angel.

A man, a monster.

A murder and a date.