Fiction by

Christian Blake


The Magic Word ©Christian Blake

Then a man appeared.
Beside his truck he stood, outside his door.
Right out of nowhere, he was there.
And dressed up real nice too. A suit he wore; a shiny black, with a black tie.
He looked . . . morbid? Yes, he looked morbid. His face pale, drawn.


He had awoke to the sun, as he had done for years.

It had stole through the window and warmed his cheek as he dreamed.
It felt good, to wake up with the sun on your face. But not to him,
because he he had lost that feeling,
that certain connection with nature,
many, many years ago.

So instead of being bright and cheery,
he repeated his normal morning of anger and grumbled his way out of bed,

Why Lord?
Why must you make me continue like this?
In this horrible world?
Let me die!

You can find the rest of this story on Smashwords.