It was a dark and stormy night...well, they always say that, and it's become cliche, but on this night, it rang true.
A beautiful May afternoon couldn't have prepared you for a deluge that evening. It seemed like the heavens were knocking endlessly on the roof, raindrop after raindrop, numbering in the thousands. The night grew restless as hours passed by, and it seemed like there was no end to the downpour.
This was no trouble to you, either way.
You sat at your desk, scribbling away at parchment, clueless of how strong the rain had become. Rather, you eyed the stack of parchment sitting near the edge of the desk. The lamp hanging just above you flickered; you hoped there's enough oil in it to last the night.
It's been weeks since you started on your little undertaking--writing a story that no one's ever written before. Something that will last the ages and, hopefully, give you the recognition that you think you rightfully deserve. You kept telling yourself that as the weeks passed. You've poured out most of your being over this one story, and it will be your death if you don't get it all out.
You lean back on your chair, staring at the last of the empty space that waited at the bottom of the parchment, waiting to be filled up. You've thought of the ending already--you've seen it play out in your subconscious, you've spoken parts of the dialogue for it. All there is left to do was to put it down on parchment.
A sigh of relief was followed by the crash of thunder. The rumbling felt so close; it felt like it could shake the whole house into a pile or rubble. Lightning flickered bright blue; bright, spindly veins coursed through the dark sky. It was most likely getting late; you don't remember how long you've been at your desk, but you do remember you haven't had dinner.
There was a basket sitting beside your chair; loaves of bread were in it. It must've been your sister who left it there; you remembered she went out to go into the town that afternoon.
Now that you think about it, you don't even remember stepping out of your house that day, not even once.
You took one loaf and pressed it between your hands. Hours ago it would have been warmer. You took a bite out of it.
It suddenly bothers you how little your contact with the outside world had become. It felt like being trapped by your own characters--shackled to your desk until you have the whole story down on parchment. As hilarious as the thought struck you, it's kind of sad; the hours you could have spent down at the pub with a few friends; the moments you could've used for other things.
But then again, it's not like anyone can blame you for wanting to finish something you've already started many weeks ago, right?
A beautiful May afternoon couldn't have prepared you for a deluge that evening. It seemed like the heavens were knocking endlessly on the roof, raindrop after raindrop, numbering in the thousands. The night grew restless as hours passed by, and it seemed like there was no end to the downpour.
This was no trouble to you, either way.
You sat at your desk, scribbling away at parchment, clueless of how strong the rain had become. Rather, you eyed the stack of parchment sitting near the edge of the desk. The lamp hanging just above you flickered; you hoped there's enough oil in it to last the night.
It's been weeks since you started on your little undertaking--writing a story that no one's ever written before. Something that will last the ages and, hopefully, give you the recognition that you think you rightfully deserve. You kept telling yourself that as the weeks passed. You've poured out most of your being over this one story, and it will be your death if you don't get it all out.
You lean back on your chair, staring at the last of the empty space that waited at the bottom of the parchment, waiting to be filled up. You've thought of the ending already--you've seen it play out in your subconscious, you've spoken parts of the dialogue for it. All there is left to do was to put it down on parchment.
A sigh of relief was followed by the crash of thunder. The rumbling felt so close; it felt like it could shake the whole house into a pile or rubble. Lightning flickered bright blue; bright, spindly veins coursed through the dark sky. It was most likely getting late; you don't remember how long you've been at your desk, but you do remember you haven't had dinner.
There was a basket sitting beside your chair; loaves of bread were in it. It must've been your sister who left it there; you remembered she went out to go into the town that afternoon.
Now that you think about it, you don't even remember stepping out of your house that day, not even once.
You took one loaf and pressed it between your hands. Hours ago it would have been warmer. You took a bite out of it.
It suddenly bothers you how little your contact with the outside world had become. It felt like being trapped by your own characters--shackled to your desk until you have the whole story down on parchment. As hilarious as the thought struck you, it's kind of sad; the hours you could have spent down at the pub with a few friends; the moments you could've used for other things.
But then again, it's not like anyone can blame you for wanting to finish something you've already started many weeks ago, right?
