Though I don’t write fiction nearly as much as I used to, influences on my fiction tend to crop up in my poems. In this case, Stephen King looms rather large.

The Pinprick Man

In the shadows,
the Pinprick Man gleams.

“I have a chest of drawers
filled with nightmares,” he says.
“Shall I show you?”

I take a deep breath
and exhale parchment
upon which I write my
last will and testament.

“Yes,” I say.

The Pinprick Man
smiles a thousand times
and opens a drawer.