The words: pen; computer; suitcase; gun; cat; DVD player; phone; half written novel; clock. Instead of three, I used five of them. So sue me :o)
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The biro flew across the room and fell into the corner. Thomas considered letting the computer follow it, but at the last minute settled for kicking it instead. The box rattled in its nest at the bottom of the desk. It did nothing to alleviate his mood.
That bloody novel. He'd been working on it for nearly four years now and it was still barely half finished. So many times he'd decided to give it up. So many times he'd decided to go out and get a life, already. But every single time, it crept back into his mind. Bled into his subconscious like a wound that just wouldn't heal. And then - every. Single. Time - he picked up his pen once more, started making notes, writing details about his characters, and the words would flow.
For all of two days.
And then they would start to dry up once more.
Dust tickled his nose as he scrabbled round for his pen. This was getting ridiculous. He needed to put this stupid novel out of his mind, once and for all.
He would let his pen choose. It could be a pointer to help him decide whether he should try and struggle on, or, well. Whether he should give it up as a bad job, after all.
Thomas walked over to the cupboard where he kept his most treasured possessions. The picture of his parents, days before they died. The photo of him and Christie, laughing, suntanned, on holiday in Goa. How long ago it seemed now. He'd thought she was happy with him, that she'd enjoyed their holiday as much as he had. But on the last night it had all come out. How bored she'd been when he'd been spending his mornings writing. 'Nothing to do! The first few days were great, but...'
He shut his mind to the memories. This was not the time.
Thomas opened the cupboard, pulled out a polished dark wood box. His heartbeat quickened as he placed it reverentially on the floor. The pen went into the centre of the floor. He unplugged his computer mouse. That would be for the choice of carrying on. After some thought, he wriggled up into the loft and threw down his battered green suitcase. He needed that third choice, of running away.
He bowed his head and prayed to noone at all for the right answer.
Then Thomas spun the pen. It revolved half-heartedly a couple of times, then came to rest quicker than he'd expected.
It was pointing at the box.
"Thank Christ," he said aloud and jumped. His own voice reverberated in the still air.
He crawled over to the box, undid the latch. Opened the lid slowly, wondering at the contents.
The dull metal.
At last. He could say goodbye to this world. To the people who didn't take him seriously, didn't believe he could make it.
To the blasted novel.
As he pulled out the gun, he suddenly seemed to leave his body. To float up to the ceiling. He watched himself, detached, as he cradled the gun in his arms.
"This would make a great scene in my novel," he thought.
And he snapped back into his body. Grinning, he laid the gun back in the box, and walked back to the computer.
Maybe this time, he thought, it will be different.
OK, I know it's not the best story in the world, but it amused me to write and it got a laugh at the group. I hope you enjoy it too.