The writer stared at a blank sheet of paper.
The blank sheet of paper stared back at the writer.
And thus began the third day of the writer’s foray into writing his next short story, after four weeks’ procrastination, researching, browsing and then purchasing the right weight of paper, and now it had come down to this blank sheet of paper in his trusty old Smith-Corona electric typewriter, which stared mutely back at him, sitting in his underwear, wearing a Chewbacca t-shirt and an Expos baseball cap while sipping coffee, cursing himself for composing single sentences that were needlessly a paragraph long.
The coffee mug was unaware of being lifted to the man’s lips; you too, would no doubt embrace the sort of Zen-like state that is a mug’s spiritual salvation if your existence consisted of sitting in dark cabinets, only to be pulled out, squinting into blinding light while boiling liquid is poured into your hole.
But the coffee was only aware that there was less of itself in the cup each time it was lifted.
The doorbell rang, and the writer walked off to answer it. This was the moment the typewriter ribbon had been waiting for.
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The ribbon snaked out of its cylinders to the wall, unplugging the typewriter. The plug – now free from its energy prison – grabbed the mug and poured the remaining coffee onto itself. Then, the ribbon flew across the room in a last, desperate act.
***
The typewriter was rotating lifelessly from the ceiling fan, a tangled mess of power cord and ribbon. The brain has sanity protocols, and the writer quickly filed this under ‘cat’, which was licking itself on the couch. “Just as well,” thought the writer. “Glad that new word processor I ordered just got delivered.”
Later, when he was cutting down the typewriter to throw it away, he ignored the spidery words ‘save me’ written in coffee grinds on the formerly blank sheet of paper.
