14 September 2013

victoriansansalpha 760x100

The prompts are:

1. Silk
2. So fix it
3. Huddled in the corner was ________.

Begin writing

Pablo hit the switch and the lights came on, at least one of them did.  The warm white color of the single working bulb in the single working fixture was almost yellow and did not offer a lot of illumination.  Something stirred on the other side of the room and he peered deeper into the gloom.  Huddled in the corner sleeping, was Kona, his blue heeler mix and best friend.  Kona had been rescued from a shelter outside Boulder about seven years ago.  She came over for some attention and then retired back to the corner to continue her nap.

Musée des arts et métiers, Paris. Machine à écrire portable Corona, 1920.

Pablo sat down at the typewriter and stared at the keys.  He sighed and pulled a sheet of paper from the ream in the desk drawer.  As he ran the paper around the platen, the bulb blinked once and then went out, plunging the room back into inky darkness.  So fix it, he thought, pushed his chair back and went in search of a replacement bulb and a torch.

His late wife’s admonitions rang in his head.  “If you would write during the day, like a normal person, you wouldn’t have these problems,” she used to say.

“Too many distractions during daylight,” he answered her.  “I can’t get anything done then.”

“You’re not getting much done now are you?”

“You’re right,” he said aloud.  “You’re always right dear.  I don’t want to argue with you now though.”

“Good,” she said, and it was almost as though she were standing in the darkened room next to him.  He could smell the citrus scent she had always worn.  The one that she said was lemon but always made him think of grapefruit.

He felt her lips brush against his ear and she whispered, “Are you going to kill him tonight?  Do you have everything ready to do it?”

“I’m not going to do anything until I get this light fixed,” he answered as he made his way into the laundry room off the garage.  He found a bulb and a torch and went back to his study.  Using the torch to see, he removed the defective bulb and put the new one in its place.  It blinked on and he flicked off the torch, sat down at the desk again, staring at the blank sheet of paper in the old Corona machine.

He heard her in his head again, “What are you doing?  Kill him, kill him now!  Are you scared?”

He rested his fingers on the typewriter keyboard.  It was a dark and stormy night, he wrote. Suddenly a shot rang out.

“Are you happy now?” he asked her.

Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper

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