The Author

Eyes blinking rapidly, glaring into the blank computer screen, the lights out. His fingertips were firmly pressed into precisely chosen keys, he began typing.

[Her tears streamed nightly, silently over a porcelain painted face. Bruised and beaten wouldn't begin to describe her atrocity, in some ways she loved the abuse and sometimes knew she was better than that. Serenity for the damned is priceless in a place where you can get anything]

“GODDAMNIT”, he yelled as he slammed the desktop. Slowly moving his hands from his furrowed brow to the keyboard, feeling for the backspace button and then he pushed so hard to force away his disgust. He was due to finish an epic ficition novel and hadn’t been inspired for the three months alotted time the publisher had given him. He was beyond frustrated, grabbing for the Grandad’s Whiskey bottle resting next to the computer screen. Another open-throat guzzle of the good stuff.

He positioned his fingers again, moving his lips to the typing…

[LIfe seems so dreary on the outside, and it is, however her nearly unwavering lies to herself convince her it's not so bad. She's bled and turned cold from her haunted past, and yet somehow with total control of her destiny she continues to fall]

“Fuck, why can’t I write a decent paragraph” he screamed out expecting a really well prepared answer. He sat for a moment, breathing heavily and weighing the frustration. “I’ll try it”.

[Naturally, in this sort of situation there ought to be someone significant nearby to help pick up the many broken pieces and help her collect herself, but in this particular case - Not a soul remains. She's pushed away those that love and care, stayed sealed]

He pursed his lips and slowly tilted his head back fixing his eyes on the stuccoed ceiling of his cheap ass apartment. “God”, he muttered “I’m a lowly, filthy creature”. He lifted his head back up and moved his hands around his head to barricade his face.

He thought. Maybe add an introduction of some sort to add a history to her?

[A soft knock on a cheap apartment room door, the shit door connecting the walls of a small tenement living 'solution', a small piece in the puzzle of the city. "Come out, slowly", a brute voice swiftly demanded. "Come out slowly, make it sexy", the voice said again a bit harsher. The pale legs of twenty something whore creeped out of the doorway, the further up her thigh were lavish and dark bruises from the night or so before. "Don't you look sweet" the voice said with more compassion]

He continued typing away, for some reason he became intrigued in the character. So immersed in the girl’s life, portraying her thoughts and pains like the canvas artist to his oily masterpiece. Filing in every curved portion and framing her life in tragic queries. She was destined to be a top-seller. He took another swig of the whiskey and typed away.

He typed for hours, fifteen pages turned to thirty, and fifty to one hundred. The quota was going to be met, he was going to get the story published and the procrastination wasn’t bad afterall. “Thank God”, he muttered after he’d typed his heart out. A quick ‘ctrl+s’ and he had a New York Times Bestseller on his hands. The novella was due in a matter of hours and he was incredibly tired but wondered if he slept would he actually wake up on time.

He decided to drink some coffee and wait it out, plus he had to sober up. He walked over to the couch after initializing a print of the new hit, and turned on the tube. CNN, he had an illegal cable feed from a guy who he’d met that was a friend of a whore who was his aunt, they were interviewing a critically accaimed novelist. He got comfortable and envisioned himself in that persons spot, it could be him in just a matter of hours. Then he heard something, his title… The woman on the television said the title of HIS book! What are the odds? He walked over to the table where his pc sat, he plugged away for a few minutes composing another title for the story, then voila he had something. He walked back over to the couch and laid again, watching into the devil woman’s eyes. How dare she plagiarize his masterpiece (despite him being in the fault)! The news anchor asked the woman to read an excerpt from he book. As she began reading, he turned up the volume and tuned his hearing to her voice.  

She spoke “A soft knock on a cheap apartment room door, the shit door connecting the walls of a small tenement living ’solution’, a small piece in the puzzle of the city. “Come out, slowly”, a brute voice swiftly demanded. “Come out slowly, make it sexy”, the voice said again a bit harsher. The pale legs of twenty something whore creeped out of the doorway, the further up her thigh were lavish and dark bruises from the night or so before. “Don’t you look sweet” the voice said with more compassion”.

“HOLY SHIT” the guy yelled! He knew word for word that he had just wrote that without ever being exposed to her work which hadn’t even been released yet. How could this happen, he wondered. He went back to the computer and started typing away at some story about an obese man commited to losing the weight and keeping it off for good. The fatman was trifled by hunger and addiction to Hostess but maintained his steady course to recovery. Our author envisioned it as a self-help book for the fatties of America. He plugged away, the sun started creeping across his floor and he realized what time it was. He got dressed and looking all appropriate went out with a freshly printed script for a novel. It was fifteen words over the expected quota and was typed in half the type of properly produced work. He dropped it off and watied for a phone call from the publishing agent.