The Writer – Part 1

writerGodlessmonkey will be away from the computer for a month on a much needed holiday. While I’m gone I’m rerunning some of my multi-part stories for the benefit of those who might not have read them the first time around or would like to read them again. I’ll be back with new stories from October 16th. Thank you all for your support.

Sitting at his desk trying to come up with a new idea, Ivan sipped his coffee and tried not to over think it. Too many distractions, he thought to himself. The new next door neighbour was inclined to irregular hours and it was irritating. Trying to put the guy out of his mind he got up and gazed out the window for awhile. It was no good. The neighbour, what was his name? Oh yes, Elliot, kept creeping back in.

Sitting down again and picking up his pen he stared at the page, tapping the pen against his teeth. Think, damn it. It came to him at last. Why not just make the guy a character in the story? If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Right, then. But where to go with it? He thought about what the gypsy fortune teller had said when he took his son to the fair over the weekend. She had asked him what he most wanted in that moment, and since he considered the whole thing phoney anyway, he’d said he’d love to be able to do away with people who annoyed him. What was that bizarre incantation she had uttered? He couldn’t remember. Anyway, he was getting sidetracked again. Back to Elliot and the story.

Maybe he should write a murder mystery with Elliot as the star. Wow, how devious was that? No, he could do better than that. He started putting words to paper and lost himself in the new story. When the first draft was done a couple of hours later he laid the pad aside and went out to do some errands. The rest of the day went by without incident and he was enjoying a glass of wine and a good book when it occurred to him that something was out of the ordinary. Of course, it was the neighbour. There was blessed silence, and usually, at this hour there was, well, racket going on. Contented that he knew what it was he went back to reading, but there was a slight niggle at the back of his mind. Remembering the new story he had started he got up and went to the desk to retrieve it on a hunch.

He read over the draft and stopped when his eyes glided over a sentence midway through. “Elliot was waiting for a bus when a van pulled up and two men jumped out and manhandled him into the dark interior.” He put the pad of paper down and stared into space for a moment. No. It was silly. Still…he thought again about the fortune teller at the fair. Shaking his head, he went back to his wine and book, but several minutes later he got up abruptly and went next door. He hesitated for a moment, then knocked. Nothing. He knocked again. Nobody home. He went back to his apartment and sat down at the desk, staring at the pad. This is crazy, he thought. He picked up the pen and began to write. An hour later he wrote “…and as he was pushed from the slowly moving van in front of his apartment building he gave silent thanks that his plight was over and headed for his front door.”

He waited several minutes and then went to his door and listened carefully. As he heard someone coming up the stairs the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his heart began to pound. He opened the door a crack and peeked out.

End of part 1. Part 2 tomorrow…


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