The Typewriter

Murderous thunder booms through the night in time to the beat of his typewriter. Sipping his whiskey, he pondered his next sentence. Dramatic or understated. Lively or dark. There were so many thoughts racing through his head. The protagonist seems to be in high spirits which posed a problem. He focused on the fact that this was a murder mystery. A happy protagonist just didn’t fit.

The next sip of whiskey went down better than the first. His throat started to go numb to the burning sensation of the alcohol as it seared his esophagus on its way down. It didn’t even bring tears to his eyes like the first sip always did. Unfortunately for him, the numbness he started to feel was no help at all. If anything, it made him more incoherent, his writing suffering as his fingers stopped typing. Though, he thought he heard somewhere that all good artists have a vice. So, he embraced that as his.

Two glasses in to his drinking binge, he began typing once more. There had to be a way to turn this story around. A joyful protagonist wouldn’t work here, at all. After all, someone was after her. Her husband was already dead, and though it appears that the perp did not a single trace, the only thing she was sure of is that she was next on the hit list.

Of course, the story took him down the path of her finding some sort of hot, muscular, law enforcement type. Hence the happiness. For that happiness he suddenly hated her. The hate that swam through him brought a sudden urge to take the typewriter and throw it out the window. Not that it would go far seeing as he was seated in his study on the first floor of the house. Nonetheless, it would still bring him some sort of satisfaction.

 

To Be Continued…

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