by Z. M. Wilmot
***
The remains of Emilio D’arcy’s old typewriter were swept off the desk and onto the floor, where they bounced and slid on the dusty wood until they clattered against the wall. Kicking the door shut with, Emilio put down the box containing his new partner in prose and opened it excitedly, lifting it gently out of the box and placing it carefully on the rickety chair that sat before his desk. He tossed the box over his shoulder, where it flew into the bathroom and landed by the toilet there. The smell of rotting food floated in from the flat’s underused kitchen, but the writer never noticed it.
The new typewriter was quickly placed on Emilio’s desk, a typewriter ribbon from one of the myriad boxes scattered about the flat strung through it, and the chair in front of it occupied by the form of Emilio. His foot tapped lightly on a pile of ink-filled papers, containing half-considered notions turned into what resembled a story. Only one in five of Emilio’s creations ever saw completion.
A piece of paper was slipped under the door, from the author’s landlord, informing him that his rent was overdue and that if next month’s wasn’t paid on time either, the landlord would have no choice but to evict Mr. D’arcy. Emilio paid no need, however, as he thought and considered what he should put onto the page before him.
It needed to be something scary – no, terrifying – more so than he had ever done before. It had to be better than anything found in those pulp fiction magazines – and certainly better than those stories he wrote for the paper by day.
Despite his low earnings and atrocious living conditions, money had never been an issue or an object for the young man – the true purpose of his existence was to bring the Word to life. True, the Word often fiercely resisted being brought into existence, but it was the sacred job of the scribe to make battle with the many-headed monster of the Word, and chain it down to a blot of ink on a piece of pulped wood.
Creativity can never be chained.
The author smiled at the voice in the back of his head. “Ah! My muse! How I’ve missed you.” He felt ideas began to churn and rise in the back of his mind, and he laughed giddily as their power began to flow through him. There were so many things he could do, so many worlds he could create…
“But let’s start closer to home, shall we?” he said lightly to himself. “The scariest stories are those that we know well and can understand, eh?”
Of course, said the voice in his head. It was growing fainter. Just start writing!
“Yes,” Emilio nodded, finally settling upon an idea. “Let’s.”
