Carlo kicks off his blog by blurring the lines between fiction and nonfiction. The following piece is Fight Club meets The Arabian Nights. It’s a planned catastrophe to hold back a different, more dire concern—the tragedy of good art left uncreated.

I got held hostage in my bedroom last night. How was your New Year’s?

Around 1am, the assassin was already there waiting. I nudged the door open and before I could reach the floor lamp, a thick leather glove clamped over my mouth. Soon I felt the shock of cold metal resting against my temple.

“You scream, I shoot. You run, you die,” she said.

I raised my hands in feeble surrender. The gloved hand left my mouth and a few seconds later, warm light flooded the room with a single, sharp click.

“Have a seat, Carlo,” she said, pistol pointed my way. She wore black from her long sleeves down to her heels, which didn’t surprise me. In my mind I gave her an “A” for Intimidation and Professionalism.

I took a seat. The chair squeaked and I almost apologized for no reason. Sweat beaded on my forehead and gathered around my armpits. My hands, too, welled up with unsightly perspiration. I hoped my wife Patricia would arrive to save the day soon.

“Please,” I said. “Don’t shoot. You can have whatever you want.”

“That… will take some time.” She smiled and the corner of her grin curled around like a fish hook.

“So what do you want exactly?”

She walked toward me and leaned on the desk beside me. “Your stories.”

“You mean, my previous work?” She laughed as I stammered on. “I—I have a flash drive. I can give you everything I have. I mean, it’s not much, but—“

“No,” she said. “I want new stories.”

“I don’t understand.” I wiped the sweat from my brow. It struck me that this was going to be neither quick nor painless nor usual.

“We’ve been watching you for some time,” she said, leafing through a portfolio on the desk with her free hand. “You won poetry awards in high school. Your college fiction showed promise. And then… you went off the grid.”

“Wait… who’s we? And how do you know so much about me?”

She smiled again. “Good questions, really. But they’re not very important.” She put down the folder and pushed it towards me. “What is important is that you do what you’ve wanted to do for over 15 years. Go on, take a look.”

I opened up the folder and found clippings of all the poetry and unfinished stories I had ever written. Some were typed out in pristine condition, others were scrawled on crumpled notebook paper. I saw my writing awards, and the time I was featured in the San Diego Union-Tribune for winning some poetry contest so long ago.

And at the end of the dossier, I saw something else. Every blog and Facebook post I’d made about my oldest, truest dreams. Of being a writer. Of writing books, good ones, that challenge and inspire. Of being significant and productive and some kind of wunderkind. Sweat mingled with tears began to stain these old dreams. And fear mixed with regret over all the lost years, over the missed opportunities; how “all talk and no rock” was the watchword of my days; the artist’s shame of silence and empty pages and blank canvases the world over.

I let dead tears fall and spoke to the pistol in her hand. “So tell me what you want me to do.”

She lobbed a box of Kleenex at me that I failed to catch. “Ow.” I rubbed the pockmark in my sore cheek.

“Well, here’s how this works. You tell me a story every day. If you do, great! Our purpose is served and you get to do what you’ve wanted to. But if you don’t, or if you somehow decide to go to the cops…well, then something awful happens.”

I hesitated. “Like what?”

She nodded and pouted, expecting such a question. Then she turned around casually and popped my stuffed animals in the gut with silenced rounds, one-by-one. Spongebob, Squidward, Super Mario and Lotso… even that weird green animal of ambiguous classification. (Was he a crocodile, or hippo-horse? Nevermind world, he’s dead.) White fluff flew and cotton bodies convulsed as I cried out in horror. “Stop, stop!”

She put the gun back in its holster. My stuffed toys lay motionless in grotesque disarray, white cotton entrails spilling out onto the carpet. “You either live out your dreams or you die along with them,” she said. “Or, if you prefer, you either make art or I ruin the art that you love. You know… spoil upcoming movies, overplay your favorite songs, and so on. So there are options.”

“I hate spoilers,” I muttered.

“Oh, I know. I know.”

I heard the clinking of saucers and teacups behind me.

“One lemon tea with honey… did you want anything babe?” It was Patricia.

I turned. “Wait… you know each other? Is this some kind of prank?” I said.

“No, I don’t think so,” said Patricia. “And we just met earlier.”

“This is so good,” said my captor, sipping her tea from the cup. “Oh, I forgot to introduce myself earlier. My name is Shara. I’m your muse.”

“Um… okay. You shot my animals.”

“I’m sorry about that,” she said. “Desperate times and all that jazz.”

Shara sat down in a chair by the window, flanking the stuffed toys she had so viciously slaughtered. Patricia placed her hand over mine as she walked past. Then she sat on the bed, reached over and grabbed a pen and journal from atop her nightstand.

“So…” I mused.

“I was about to say the exact same thing,” said Shara, placing her gun by the window. “I think we’re all ready then.”

“Ready for what?” I said.

“For your first story of the year,” said Shara.

“This is exciting,” said Patricia.

“I know, right?” Shara retorted.

“Uhhh…” I felt feverish and my thoughts were unclear. This was definitely one of the worst things that could happen to me tonight. But perhaps, by some twist of fate, might it also be among the best?

My eyes wandered in the space between the two ladies. All my stuffed toys were dead—all, it seemed, but one. A light started to burn. I took a deep breath and sat up straight.

It was then that I began to tell the tale of Moodle the Cow…