Friday

The Writer (281 words)



The writer sits at his desk and awaits his fate. His fingers hover over the keyboard delaying the inevitable before eventually succumbing to the urge and opening the floodgates in his brain.

His fingers dance across the keys conjuring a world, a universe, a man.

His words send this man down the corridors of his own personal hell. They send him to a locked door for his own amusement. They backtrack him through the labyrinth of his mind, into one of the darker regions of his being. Here the man meets another dead end of the writer's creation.

A fire is started; alarms are raised, the problem overcome.

The man thinks this is down to his ingenuity, not knowing just how little freewill he really has. He thinks his acts are unseen, reliably informed the cameras down here don't work. He thinks wrong. Everything is witnessed and logged.

Another man, this one of a purer heart, fears for his life. He fears for everyone's. He knows he should do something, he just isn't sure what.

A thousand miles away an angry youth senses the end is near.

A hardboiled private eye sits and stares at his plate full of fried eggs.

A doctor snaps on a fresh pair of gloves and marvels at his hands.

A child buckles her shoes.

A former energy consultant lies on his bed without a care in the world.

The man bursts into the writer's room, for a moment the words stop flowing. The world stops turning, an entire universe collectively holds its breath.

Without even glancing up from his keyboard the writer addresses the eye of his storm. "Ah, Doctor Connors, I've been expecting you."


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