Written some time back, in response to a challenge to use the five words that are in all caps in a flashie.
“Call me Isaac.” He laughed at his joke though no one else did. Moby fucking Dick, for chrissake. Why would that come back to him? Once a lunatic writer, always … he supposed.
“Because I’m a SACRIFICE, Isaac to Abraham’s Ishmael,” he explained to himself. No one else cared.
Not surprising since he was alone. Had been for months at least. Like those monks on that godforsaken fist of rock off the coast of Ireland. Sk-something.
Why monks in a godforsaken place? Weren’t they supposed to be godsaking? And why think of monks?
He tracked that PEREGRINE thought as it trumpeted its nature, migrating lobe to lobe within his skull. He tackled it as it made the second pass, before it could CRASH. Monks? Why … oohhh. Alone, the monks on Sk-something, each in his silent hut. They’d made friends with mice. Birds. Spiders. For company.
He flung his gaze around the spacious home — laughing at the thought — in which he lived, searching for an elusive nonhuman companion. Not even a roach.
“Isaac, simply pass the time.” He looked up, knowing that eventually, the cardboard ceiling would VIBRATE when a truck crossed the bridge that was landlord to his box. There weren’t many that night, but even imagined truck drivers would be company.
He heard it. A faint TREMOLO with an overlay of “mine’s bigger” glass packs. Scuttling out of his mansion, he stood beside his dwelling to watch the strobe of red and blue and weeee-ooooo dopplering after its prey.
He scrawled, words across his mind, willing the imagery to germinate. Lose the cops and runners; keep the hungry creature-cars with their siren mating calls. He had: plot, storyline, everything.
It would be his comeback novel, dark, gritty, dystopian. He’d call it “50 Shades of Car.”