Last Writes
The light outside looked strange by the time I finished my studies. I moved to the window to see better. Gray clouds covered the sky and I could sense an electric charge in the air. Weariness was threatening to overcome me but I…
FFFFFFTTT….. He yanked the paper out of the typewriter, crumpled it up and threw it on the floor in the area of the wastebasket. That’s all wrong, he thought. After inserting another piece of paper he folded his hands and stared at its white blankness.
Waves of heat danced across the seemingly endless expanse of sand. The Colonel hitched up his pack, settling it into a more comfortable position. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He pulled on his gloves and pulled up his hood, covering up the last of his exposed skin. “It’s going to be a long day,” he thought….
FFFFFFFFFTTTTTT……..Yanking and crumpling viciously, he threw the paper, this time not anywhere near the wastebasket. That won’t do either, he thought. After inserting another piece of paper he cracked his knuckles, took a deep breath then let it out slowly. He stared at the paper. He got up and paced around the room. He thought, I should’ve brought my laptop instead of using this old typewriter. Yeah, but then I’d be tempted to check my e-mail. The reason I came to this cabin all alone was to get away from distractions so that I could really write. He sat down.
It was surprising how quickly he got to the heart of the matter. He saw her eyes widen, just momentarily, at his statement that so casually exposed what she thought was so secret. She quickly recovered her composure. Looking at him through heavily lidded eyes she purred, “Why Detective Bronson, how could you even think such a thing about me. Please give me a chance to show you how wrong you are.”
The implied invitation in her voice was definitely kicking his body heat up a few degrees….
FFFFFFFFTTTTT………Yanking, crumpling and throwing, the motion brought a small amount of catharsis. Crap! That’s still not right, he thought. Getting started is always the plight of the writer. It was like his first book. Once he got started, got into the groove, it just flowed. It was like catching a wave and riding it all the way. First book, yeah, right. Only book is what it was, and I haven’t been able to catch that wave since.
“How oddly appropriate that we should meet here, “said Cavanaugh to his arch enemy Professor Dunlap. The two men stood facing each other in the richly appointed environs of the Adventurers’ Club, wary as rival tigers.
“Yes.” rasped Professor Dunlap, “although it wasn’t mere chance that brought us here together today, “he added as he reached into the deep front pocket of his jacket…..
FFFFFFFFFTTTTTT………Yanking and crumpling with a bit less vehemence, he tossed the wad of paper with others on the floor. He bit his lip in thought. His favorite quote from Pritchard kept running across his mind; “Though the writer’s lot is rough I will always choose to be in the company of those excited by the clever turn of a phrase.” He then got up to get himself some coffee. Sipping a steaming cup of the strong, black brew, he sat down at the typewriter, put another piece of paper in and stared at the blankness.
He was done waiting for her. Just another dame treating me like a patsy, he thought. You were played for quite the fool once again, eh, Billy boy? Well no more, he thought, I’m moving on and from now on it’s looking out for numero uno. That’s right, this guy’s going to have some fun and no woman’s ever going to get her hooks in me again. But even as he blustered to himself he could feel his traitorous heart burning and yearning for that one true love he just knew must be out there……
FFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTT……….He threw it with the others in the growing pile of paper near the wastebasket. He ground his teeth and sucked in another deep breath letting it out slowly. No need to force it he thought, I’ve got lots of time. He inserted another piece of paper, rubbed his eyes, sipped his coffee and leaned back in his chair. I’ve got to focus, he thought. All these ideas but I’ve got to focus on just one or two good concepts. He thought about his one and only published novel. How clear the story and the characters appeared to him as he was writing it. Although he had written a few stories and essays since, nothing seemed as certain and as powerful as that experience.
The tempest tossed the tiny craft as torrents drenched the lone occupant. He clutched the boat with frantic strength as it was flung first one way and then the other. The desire for revenge that burned within him matched the fury of the storm that raged around him. On and on he held with grim determination and though the wind and rain abated, his hatred only grew stronger and it sustained him. He must survive, he would survive and one day those who had betrayed him would pay……..
FFFFFFFTTTTTT………Yanking and crumpling the paper he flung it away from himself with little regard for direction. Rats! He thought. That’s still doesn’t feel right.
But I can get this, I know I can. I’ve done this before and I know I’m not just a one hit wonder. To be honest, hit might not be the right word. The book was modestly successful but never quite what he had hoped for. Still, it had found an audience and he recalled fondly how his nephew was excited and impressed by it. Never having had kids of his own it was quite something for him to be such a hero in his nephew’s eyes.
The day the circus came to town was the worst day of Milton’s life. One minute he was enjoying himself along with the rest of the audience, and the next he was running in panic and terror as several rogue elephants went on a rampage. But things really went down hill when he sought refuge in one of the performer’s tents and came upon a most surprising scene: one of the circus clowns was holding a large bloody knife and standing over a bloody, lifeless body….
FFFFFFFFFTTTTTT………..He yanked the paper and crumpled it, pausing a moment in thought before tossing it carelessly over his shoulder. It’s coming to me, he thought. It’s right there at the edge of my awareness. He sat very still trying to latch onto the elusive idea that was percolating in his brain. After a few minutes he decided that he needed another cup of coffee. Returning with a fresh cup he sat sipping it and thinking. He then inserted another clean sheet of paper in the old machine. An idea was slowly forming in his head. He sipped and thought, sipped and thought. Then the mental clouds started clearing away and the idea emerged like the sun after a storm illuminating a beautiful countryside. The more he examined the scene the more excited he got. He thought, yes, this is it, I’ve got it!
He then began to type. It started to flow out of him like water. His vision was clear and vibrant. He started to fill page after page and even though he sometimes stumbled, sometimes backtracked and rewrote, the vision energized and sustained him. He found that wave and it carried him along. For days he wrote barely remembering to eat and sleep. He told the story, remaining true to his vision and it felt exhilarating. When he finished the last page he was tired but content.
* * *
When he hadn’t returned from the cabin they went to check on him. They found him seated at his typewriter, his heart had stopped. He had no family but his nephew and his nephew’s wife and they came to the cabin to dispose of his property.
“I suppose we’re going to have to sell this place,” said the nephew.
“Well, it’s too far for us to come to make use of it,” said his wife, “and besides this building isn’t much more than a shack that’s about to fall down. We couldn’t afford to rebuild anything here.” The wife spied the manuscript sitting on the desk. She picked it up and began to read through it.
“What’s that?” asked the nephew
She put the manuscript back down. “It’s just more of that overwrought drivel that he liked to write.” she answered. ‘It’s a lot like that other book he wrote, the one you used to think was so cool when you were a kid. I think he should’ve concentrated more on his insurance business instead of always trying to be a writer.”
“Maybe,” said the nephew,” but all his life he wanted to be a writer. I think it’s good that he died doing something he loved.”
“I suppose,” sniffed his wife.
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