The Writing on the Wall

The room reeked of blue Indian ink, the air heavy with smoke and the rhythmic sound of metal hitting tape hitting paper. A writer punching out his story may look like a dog in heat. He pounds away at the plastic keys in devotional trance, putting any televangelist to shame. He rips the paper out from the grip of the instrument, scrunching it in his left hand and tosses it backward. It arcs through the air joining many that died before, a writers graveyard, evenly sized balls of paper. The tears stood in attention in his eyes, unsure if they have been called too early or too late, yet ready to march into moksha, dependable. Loading another sheet of paper, he resumed banging the keys, this time with thoughtful pause and inner calm.

His eyes never lift off the shiny keys, each carrying one letter on its back. They wait patiently, delicately balanced and waiting to be pushed, multiplying onto the loaded paper. The ‘a’s and ‘e’s stuck up their noses, popular and undeniably important. The ’z’s sat back with a smug smile, under used but perhaps special.

A writer is sexy. He is sexy because he writes, which is so much more sexier than coding or creating presentations or selling soap. Stringing words together that make the heart beat faster, connect with some old memory or in the most undesirable scenario, make you think. But why does the writer write? Did that incredible line evoke the same emotion, as it did in his reader. How unfortunate, that the chorus he produces, that is quoted and re-quoted over whiskey and weed, how unfortunate that the writer is unable to read his work as a reader would , but instead may read it only as best a writer could.

A writer is like God, creating matter from nothing. Sometimes he tells stories, of murder and gore, and sometimes he writes erotica to titillate. He writes poetry and love letters, of times gone past and years into the future. Our physical self, walks on this Earth, which was presumably created in some cosmic dance, of energy and belief. Our mental selves, the one that thinks and feels, walks in a different world. This world is where writers rule and roam free. They can create planets, bring forth your darkest secret or bury your deepest truth. You may critique their writing, orgasm at its brilliance or spew your guts out at the sheer profanity of their verse, but in their world, you belong to them.

The room started to look hazy, a combination of smoke in the room and tears in his eyes. His gaze was unwavering, refusing to look up at his final work, his big “f**k you” to the world. He lifted the gun to his head, with theatrical ease. His finger felt sweaty, cold steel on the side of his head. He took a deep breath, instantly regretting this idea as smoke filled his lungs causing a tirade of stifled coughing. He pulled the trigger as his cough subsided and his hand steadied. He stared at the words on the paper in front.

The police man jimmied the door open, a gush of smoke tumbled out drunk onto the hallway. Waving his hands in front of his eyes, he made out the image of a man stooped on his chair in front of an abused type writer. The blood had splattered on the wall to his left, making butterflies and castles with many windows and a moat. The gun lay smoking in his right hand, still holding on to his finger with its trigger. The policeman peered forward, past the stooped man, at the paper in the machine. Squinting, he could make out the title with some imagination, as the last drops of ink had been sucked dry from the tape leaving a ghostly blue image on sheet, “The Writer”, it said.

The lines of empty space below, testimony to heavy prose that moved from the writers soul to his mind, from the mind to his fingers and from his fingers to the shiny keys. They had died a swift death, as had the writer. His final work was on the wall, it had butterflies and castles.

Reviews

[Chadvonswan]

This was very interesting, and very well written. Its odd, I saw so many similarities between this story to my writing. I have a story on here called, The Writer, which deals with suicide. I also have another story called A Love Story, which is also kind of similar. All involving the good old fashioned typewriter haha. This was a nice piece!

[Siva]

thank you! I would like to read both of them, could you paste a link, wasnt able to find them on your page. Its interesting how two people have similar thoughts at times which results in the same words on paper. Cheers

[Chadvonswan]

Of course! Yes it is rather coincidental, like cosmic circumstance drenched in ink. Here is the link to one of my odd stories if you are interested:
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/chadvonswan/1349460/

[Siva]

Read and commented. Great work.

[Chadvonswan]

Thank you very much!