Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Dinky Story I wrote today, figured I'd share it with you.

I stared blankly at the screen, losing count of the times the cursor had been blinking. This had been the longest 15 minutes of my life, the only way I could be more bored was if I started counting the dots on the ceiling, but I wouldn’t allow myself to sink to that level. No, I was a writer, I was just having a little blockage.
Standing up, I pushed the keyboard away from me and huffed at it. I knew it wouldn’t be good to throw it, even though I felt like going Office Space on it. I only owned the one, so I better keep my rage under control. I looked at the monitor. Cursor still blinking in the field of white background. New document my ass. What was I thinking?
The night before the ideas had come so fast. Flying cars, space aliens, elves riding on horseback. I knew what I was going to write, but this morning, sitting at the computer, it just wasn’t coming. It never seemed to. Inspiration only struck when I was bored these days.
My arm shot out and pushed the button on the front of the monitor. At least I didn’t have to stare at the screen any longer, and black was better than white for a little bit.
Coffee. I reached for my mug to the side of my mouse and missed, spilling half a cup of coffee all over the mousepad. 
Dammit! Just what I needed now, spilled coffee. I quickly righted the mug and grabbed the pad out from under the mouse while deftly hanging the mouse from it’s cord over my monitor. Luckily it only got on the desk.
I rushed into the kitchen to grab a towel, deposited the mousepad in the sink and ran back. The coffee was spreading slowly out in arms across the desk. I pushed the keyboard out of the way, resting it on the monitor stand to keep it out of the spillage. Raising the rag, I stopped.
It was beautiful in a way, the arm of coffee, bulging from itself, slowly creeping along my desk reminding me of the long arms of Cthulhu, from those stories my granddaddy used to tell me when I was a kid. Or maybe it was an analogy for the Gulf Oil Spill last year from BP, spreading to wreak damage on my ocean of a desk.
My notebook was in the way, which I quickly grabbed, but the pencil fell back to the desk, the tip coming to rest as the oil spill began to engulf it. Was it my imagination or did the spill began to pick up speed as it found something to engulf? It’s tiny tendrils, being held back by tension and air pressure, found footing along the smalls creases in the pencil and bounded along it’s surface. A drop leaked out from under the eraser. It had found it’s way under the pencil faster than it had crept along it’s side.
Suddenly, it made sense. I knew what I was going to write. The blob! Only it’s got nanobots in it, and it’s smarter than any human, made by aliens!
I quickly pulled the pencil away from the runaway spill and mopped up the mess with my dry rag. I ran back to the kitchen and ran it under water to get all the coffee out, then ran back and wiped up the spilled areas yet again, this time lifting up the monitor to get the bit that managed to ooze itself up underneath the base, grateful I lifted up my keyboard and mouse. 
I set the monitor back down with a clunk and smiled to myself. Just moments ago I had writers block and all it took was something engaging my mind for a few minutes to bring me back to reality. I swore under my breath. You would think that I would have learned these lessons by now. I have been writing for over a couple years, but no, I like to take my lessons the hard way. 
Mopping up the rest of the mess, and ensuring that there was no errant coffee, I wiped down the pencil and headed back to wipe off the mousepad. Leaving it in the sink to dry, I plopped back in my chair and rearranged the keyboard, mouse with no mouse pad, and turned back on the monitor.
I started to write.
***
Thirty minutes later I surveyed what I had written on the screen: “No one knew where the blob came from, or wether it was alien or nano-bot controlled, but one thing was for sure “
Then there was that damned cursor. 
Blinking. Taunting me, laughing at me. Not wavering in it’s resolve to tell me what a failure I was at being a writer. I had had a moment of inspiration, but it was fleeting.
I’d already counted the bumps on the ceiling, losing count around 150. I couldn’t remember if I’d gone over the same ones again.
The doorbell rang, jolting me from my reverie. I glanced over my shoulder, then back at the computer. This could wait. I closed the application, telling it not to bother saving.
Someday I’ll get my book written, but for now I had guests.

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