Write a story in a different environment – that is the instruction for today
Frankly, for me, that is an almost impossible task. Any-one reading this who is also self employed will know exactly what I mean. My stories have been composed and typed into my office keyboard for the whole of this 13 day writing experience so far, mainly by coming into the office a little earlier than usual and banging away before anyone else arrives.
Although I do leave the office occasionally – no, I’m not super glued to my seat – those occasions are usually for meetings of a business nature, and not conducive to writing a fictional short story. So, instead of changing my environment, I am going to visualize being in a coffee shop for my change of environment.
Sitting here over my cup of coffee, and being tasked to write a short story in 10 minutes or so , I decide I am up for the challenge. Pulling a notebook out of my handbag, along with an old pen that I found in the depths of it, I put pen to paper. Not! The pen and the paper do not connect. Have you ever tried this? You will be surprised at how difficult it is just to pick up a pen and write something.
People stare at me, hunched over that single cup of coffee. The whoosh of the cappacino machine, the murmurs of other people sitting their bistro style tables, the screech of the metal legs of the chairs being dragged across the tiled floor, all of these are distractions I could do without. Do I have some earplugs in my bag? Nope, so I have to tune these noises out, somehow.
The words don’t come easily – what am I to write about? My life is a boring one; work and family, family and work. My business takes almost all of my attention, even in my moments of relaxation. The television cannot engage my attention for very long; my sleep is interrupted by wakeful moments when a bright idea comes to me in the middle of the night. Even my unconscious mind is still working on the business.
The waitress is here to clear my dirty and now cold coffee cup away; does she enjoy her work. From her sulky face. I assume not. I ask her politely if I could have another. That leads me to look around the coffee shop again. How many of these people, young and old, really enjoy their lives. What are their stories? Probably a good deal more interesting than mine, I think.
The old man in the corner over there; why is he alone? Has he lost his wife?. Where are his family?. Is he living in an old folk’s home, and just comes out every now and then to have a cup of tea and see the outside world from a table in a coffee shop? What about the girl in the middle of the two boys; shouldn’t they be at school? She looks older than them, but I know that most girls always look and dress and behave older than boys of the same age. Perhaps they are her brothers, and she has been tasked with taking them out of the way of a long suffering and busy mother.
My pen rests on the unused paper of my pristine notebook. Oh, what’s the use. I need to get back to work and concentrate on something to do with the business. I can’t waste time here drinking innumerable cups of coffee waiting for inspiration to come.
Can’t you hear it?
It won’t leave me alone.
Every second, it’s there.
When I sleep, it creeps into my dreams, an unwanted guest.
I thought it would be easy.
I thought that once I made my decision, the hardest part, it would be over.
I thought I could leave my past behind me.
I was wrong.
The lines of past and present have long since blurred, leaving behind this state of nothingness that has become my everything.
Can’t you hear it?
It’s pounding in my ears.
It’s so loud.
My skull is ready to cave under it.
I am half-crazed, its presence constant.
It will be my undoing.
Can’t you make it stop?
The sound of my guilt.
The sound of a dead man’s heartbeat.
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