Welcome back to another Open Book Blog Hop!

Share the funniest scene you’ve written. Alternatively, the scariest scene.

Remember to visit my fellow writers to see what they have created. You can find their works here!

It would seem humour and comedy are not things I’ve written a lot of. That said, this is a micro fiction piece I wrote that is more dark comedy, I guess, based on the idea of cold calls being one of the circles of Hell.

“Hello, Sir. We’ve been trying to reach you about your extended warranty.”

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this, I don’t want any damned extended warranty!”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Sir. But in the event of an act of God or other inexplicable event, you would find yourself without cover should you pass on this cover.”

“Why won’t you leave me alone? I feel helpless, like I’m stuck in the ninth circle of Hell!”

“Twelfth, actually.”

“I’m sorry, say what now?”

“That centuries-old fellow, Dante. He was sadly misinformed on the correct number.”

As for scary or dark, that is something I can certainly do. As a life-long Stephen King fan, with a strange interest in the stylings of Lovecraft and Poe, I’ve written a few stories in these areas. I know this week’s Blog Hop asked for a scene, but it’s quite a short piece, and I think the whole is needed to make sense of it as a result. It’s called A Grim Portent.

In the naked tree a black crow caws into the darkening night. Coarse and rasping, and filled with foreboding, it broke the quiet of the late autumn night.

Tormented by his demons, the writer fled the house, the place that was once his sanctuary and safety.

I have slain them. Slain them all, he thought in a frantic jumble of haphazard thoughts.

As darkness enshrouded the house, it cocooned him in a malaise so deep it penetrated his bones. Writing had been his life. It was the light that shone from within. Until it became all-consuming. As summer faded into autumn and proceeded onwards towards winter, his demeanour matched the season. Dark, cold and unforgiving.

Writing brought him comfort and solace. Following the untimely death of his daughter in the spring, it became a shield from the harshness of reality. It was an outlet, an opportunity to put his hope for better times into the world.

By summer, his writings had become hot, fierce and fiery. His rage at the injustices of life spilled out, white hot like the summer sun onto the page. His rage drove his wife to an early death, leaving him alone.

As summer gave way to autumn his mood along with his work became clouded, gloomy and filled with grief. Like the clouds scudding through the sky, brief glimpses of what was could be seen in the all too infrequent gaps.

And now, as late autumn trends towards winter things had worsened. Dark and cold, his work suffered until he merely scrawled the same words over and over. Over the pages. Over the walls.

I have slain them all. Slain them all.

And that accursed crow, guide to the underworld and the afterlife, mocked him. Always, nature’s psychopomp had given him shudders. Feathers as black as night, and whiteless ever watching eyes. And the caw, haunting his every moment.

And so he runs on into the night. The steady beat of the crow’s wings as it flew unseen amongst the trees. The caw seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once, tormenting his already fractured mind.

“I have slain them all,” the troubled writer sobbed. “Slain them all! And now the dark crow urges me onwards to death. It will not take me! Though I have slain them all!”

His final words as he careened over the cliff and into the endless black. And in a naked tree a black crow caws into the darkening night.