Clearing Away the Sludge

Another page had flipped the calendar past midnight as I contemplated spending another night tossing and turning in my sleep as I lay alone in the darkness of my rundown cabin in the backwoods. I found it more and more difficult to get the sludge that had taken over my psyche out of my head.

It seemed like the saga of my life continued to assault me, beginning with the boring tediousness of my dead-end job, which had left me nothing to look forward to in my daily work life. Then, Chapter Two of the sorry tale continued when I came home one day to catch my overbearing boss in the sack with my brainless Bimbo of a wife. My creditors also stalked me constantly, ready to foreclose on the few possessions I hadn’t hocked to satisfy my 15-year addiction to the trotters.

It seemed dead-ending my life presented the only solution to my worthless existence.

I had made up my mind to do it and that’s why I closed myself alone in this decrepit shack in the far reaches of Maine.

Fitting right in with my mental state, it looked like the blizzard that I fought through on my seven-hour drive up here had added several more inches of accumulation. Plowing through the storm had added two hours to the trip from my overpriced city condo.

I had carefully planned to hunker down where no one would find my body until my final chapter closed. That at last would give me a victory over the living hell I had lived through for the last five years.

As I kept my ears open for signs of life outside the cabin I didn't hear a thing as Old Man Winter continued to add to the eariness.

I had stopped at Tom’s Superrama on the way up Frostbite Mountain and stocked up on lots of liquor to numb the pain of the storm going on in my head even more, and help make swallowing the sleeping pills easier.

Tom said he probably would not see another traveler until I came back down the mountain--little did he suspect I didn’t intend to make a return trip.

"This area looks like a ghost town most of the year, but more so today," he yelled as I hurried out to my jeep and rushed up to my soon-to-be sepulcher in the woods.

“Thanks for that bit of real good news,” I said.

I jumped into the driver's seat, glad I had compiled a huge playlist and a number of audio books on my Ipad to keep me further occupied while the drugs worked their magic.

Didn't expect to see any other sign of life unless the weather broke and someone decided to care enough to claw their way up the mountain to find me.

In the eerie stillness of the cabin I was content to be the only person in this wilderness, so I believed.

I prepared my deadly potion and took what should have been my final drink.

I slept for about 10 hours, but, instead of dying, I woke up with a terrible headache, the fire had gone out and the sun had begun to peek through the forest.

Couldn't detect any sign of life--at least right away. Suddenly, after a few minutes, I heard a knock on the door. When I opened it a strange green creature materialized in front of me.

I grabbed the Louisville Slugger leaning against the side of the fireplace and waved it at him.

"I don't know how you got here in this blizzard, or where you came from, but I better get an explanation quickly or they may find your body buried in the snow," I screamed.

The green form mumbled something that sounded like gibberish, but he quickly translated for me.

"I am Mortran. I come from the planet Ugotyte in the year 2050. A meteorite crashed into my home and destroyed our planet, spreading deadly uranium everywhere. I come seeking a new homeland for my people. Others will follow. We hope to settle peacefully on your earth and to research the origins of this meteorite so we might prevent it from destroying our way of life here."

Great, I can’t even succeed in committing suicide--and, who stops me? Some wacko creature from another planet.

I then took a swing at the creature, but he grabbed the bat out of my hand and knocked me unconscious.

For the second time that day, I woke up in a dizzying haze about an hour later.

I had no recollection of a lousy job, taking anything more than a few extra sips of the whiskey Tom sold me or having to deal with an unfaithful wife or a gambling addiction let alone confronting a creature from another planet.

I only recalled deciding to get away by myself for a peaceful weekend away from the family so I could concentrate on writing the last few chapters of my latest novel.

I now looked out the window and saw several skiers making their way up the mountain. No signs of a blizzard appeared anywhere near the cabin.

My jeep easily started up and, when I got down to the Superrama, Tom said he had not even seen a small snowfall for months.

When I told him about what happened to me he stuttered, "Oh, oh, White Mountain Lightning strikes again."

Turns out some low-grade hooch Tom had brewed in his cellar and sold at the Superrama had claimed another victim.

I soon realized that, instead of living through a weekend of suicidal machinations, I had experienced a liquor-infested nightmare. I resolved to get on the bandwagon and to stay there.

I decided to have a chance at the Pulitzer, about which I had dreamed for two decades,I needed to get serious about making this writing gig a real profession. I couldn’t allow substance abuse to infest my brain with sludge that turned the sci-fi plots of my novels into adventures in an alternative universe that blockaded my creative juices.