Author: mindyracal PM
Mort Rainey is in the process of writing another book. Only, writer's block has plagued him once again. Or is it writer's block?Rated: Fiction T - English - Mystery/Suspense - Words: 692 - Reviews: 4 - Favs: 1 - Follows: 1 - Published: 04-14-10 - Status: Complete - id: 5896438
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
DISCLAIMER: Poor Mort, if only I could claim him. :) I would gladly take him under my wing.
He curled his fingers tightly around the pencil. His teeth sunk deep into the wood; he could taste the lead and feel it snap. Saliva pooled in the corner of his mouth. He could feel the tension ease as he let his jaw relax. He sighed as he stared over his computer and out the window across the room.
Mort Rainey was at a stand still. He had written five novels within a year that went straight to the top of the New York's Bestseller's List. He felt that he had finally hit a wall and lost all form imagination. Or luck.
After the incidence in Tashmore, life hadn't been the same. Though the murders were never pinned on him, he still wanted to keep a low profile. The only time he would leave his home was for personal appearances for book signings.
And he hated every moment of it; the screaming girls, the flashing lights. The chaotic whiz of being whisked away before some random fan could leap on him and rip his clothes off.
He remembered one time this twenty-something girl bared her right breast for him to sign as she approached the table. He was seventeen years her senior but still felt the effects of her bouncing orb. Security had pulled her away yelling profanities, and said she would never read any of his books again because he wouldn't sleep with her.
Oh, the hard life.
Mort took out his sticky hand he bought off a whim out of one of those quarter vending machines. It was blue and dust and other random particles were stuck all over it. He rubbed it between his fingers releasing what he could and whipped the hand at the computer monitor.
Over and over he would yank on the other end watching the sticky fingers peel away from the dirty screen. He was lost in a trance.
Mort sighed heavily and adjusted himself in the chair. He stared at a blank screen watching the cursor; blink…blink…blink. He pursed his lips. Agitated that he felt no new ideas come to mind, he flopped back in his chair throwing his arms over the sides. He stared up at the ceiling.
He watched the little naked babies dancing on the ceiling in some form of ritual dance. They bounced and turned, moving their little bald heads in time with their feet. Their little fat arms flailed about them as they spun.
Mort clamped his hands over his eyes rubbing them till he could see little white spots. He looked back up and the naked little babies were gone. He forced himself up and draped his elbows on his thighs, staring back that the never changing cursor.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
Why couldn't he think of anything? Anything at all? His mind was always in overdrive and he was never at a loss for words. Ever.
The house was dreadfully silent. Only the click-clock from the coo-coo clock could be heard. Mrs. Garvey had been there earlier this morning and cleaned, bringing Mort a fresh bag of Doritos. That was the only reason he still kept her around. She spoiled him like a helpless child.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
The blasted cursor stared back at him, taunting him. It was like a nasty bug that crept its way under his skin causing an irritating rash to spring up. It laughed at him. It mocked him.
Mort ran his fingers in his hair and clasped at the clumps, pulling on them. He hadn't showered in two days and could feel the build up on his scalp. He rocked back and forth trying to ignore the cruel joke that the cursor was playing on him.
He looked over at the window and watched the trees blow in the wind. He knew what was below that window- a garden. A wonderful little garden.
Mort slowly let a smile draw on his face.
"I think I am in the mood for an ear of corn."