The writers block
Dark room. Curtains closed, locked door, windows open. Sound of cab's hooting pouring through. Backspace. Again.
The subtle whispering of thoughts that drool though the writer's head. A possible idea- the energy flowing through his fingers, the sound of typing, words appearing on a so far blank screen. Backspace.
A head, filled with controversial thoughts every twenty year-old owns. Daylight that's never seen in the apartment on the eleventh floor, NYC. Rent that owed, three months behind. A difficult background. Where is the inspiration?
Coffee, cups of coffee that were never cleaned up. Dull eyes behind an imported desk from IKEA. Only $150. Definitely not worth it. The writer is thinking of all that he is not to think of. Sensual pictures of erotically dressed women he tried to look at yesterday. Or was it the day before?
A sudden realisation of the absence of any interest in the life he is living. A subtle thought- no, never. I wouldn't dare. Would I? Could I do it? Would I be able to ignore the fear and fall for the rush? Leave and never come back? No. He wouldn't.
The slack starts again. Backspace. Backspace. Alt-F4. Done. I'm done. I have to get out of here, get I life. He opens the curtains. A slight frown, sharp light. His pupils shrink. He opens his apartment door. Walks up to the corridor and doesn't remember which way he should go to get downstairs. Left? He walks right, around a corner to find the lift. Push the button. Enormous irritation by the length of the wait. I just want to get downstairs, before I reconsider and want to stay inside again.
Lift comes, he gets in. Downstairs. Air, the polluted air of the big Apple. I've missed this. He tries to believe it. He goes to cross the road.
The police car didn't see him coming. To many trees. A chase, they had their sirens on. Four cars passed by, the fifth had hit Jamie McGon. His story was never published.