My eyes had started that itch in the corners and along the lashes from being up too late and the strain of long, disdainful glares at the laptop screen. From the mocking blankness of the word-processor the pale glyphs of the few typed words I’d managed glowed like dead men’s bones. There was an ache in my belly, a guttering flame, a slow burn of frustration and longing that the whiskey had only fanned in its first warm rush. A flame that never ignited even after the second and third dose. Now, on the wrong side of midnight with more fruitless hours at the keyboard behind me and nothing worth wrapping fish in to show for it, there was only the bottle and the promise it held. Warmth and dreamless sleep.
It didn’t matter if the story was any good if nothing got put on the page. “The greatest story never told.” I thought, and in a display of irony the speakers trilled to the tune of “I Can’t Get Started”. A high-trilling saxophone lamenting the lateness of the hour and missed opportunity. My glass was empty, the promise unfulfilled.
At my wrist my cellphone twittered. A cheerful, upbeat little trill, like a gilded bird in an digital cage. It could only be her at this hour.
“You up.” I read the text and couldn’t fight the smirk.
I was and text her so. Clearly, her husband wasn’t.
“How is the writing going?” the words were earnest, her concern true. It didn’t make the question any easier to answer.
“It goes. Or it doesn’t” I sent back.
“You just need the proper motivation. ;-)”
“When you motivate me it’s hardly by being proper… And I never get any writing done.”
“But what a way to be unproductive. LOL. Give me an hour.”
I set the phone down and filled the glass. There was no more ice in the whole damn place. And no new words had gone up on the screen while I wasn’t looking. I had an hour which was enough time to finish the glass, shower, and be ready for a little communion with my muse.
Maybe in the aftermath of excess, with the blood still pumping and the whole world awash in the blazing light of the culmination of two wayward souls, the words would find their own release.
© Desmond Manny 2014
I am having a little bit of a stumbling block working on my noir-fantasy piece. This is a somewhat fictionalized account of that. Just a bit of nonsense.