I imagine that all of us, at times, are subject to bouts of the blues. The reasons are as varied as people but for whatever reason, having the blues is no fun at all. When that dreary mood comes calling, one remedy I have is to write. Sometimes brief flights of fancy will be enough to restore my good humor. The following is a an example. It sort of leaves one hanging, so I guess the resolution would be to write whatever ending you think best.
Darkness closed in early, drawing around the house like a curtain. Trees, bright with leaves of gold and crimson, nodded their heads, agreeing that when morning came around, much of their fall finery would lie on the ground as a brilliant carpet.
A certain pervasive chill invaded the house and shadows clung to the corners like memories that refused to be banished by lamplight.
I placed dry logs in the fireplace, struck a match, and lit the kindling put there yesterday. Firelight jumped and as the wood crackled. Glad for its companionship, I held out my hands to the blaze, turned, and warmed my back.
Despite my feeling of relief at being safely in out of the damp darkness, uneasiness clung to my mind. A fitful wind sprung up, nosing around the ancient walls of the house, rattling windows, banging the screen door I had forgotten to fasten. But, there was another sound. A shiver ran down my back, like an icy finger. Across the porch, something scraped, stopped, scraped again. Something tried the door. The knob jiggled. Would it turn? Was the lock secure? My breath caught in my throat as I stared at it, frozen to the floor, afraid to move.
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