Franklin: The Letter Chainsaw Massacre

          Franklin coughed while hunched over his keyboard, typing furiously, as his life depended on it. "This is it!" He told himself repeatedly, convinced more than ever that he finally did it; he created the masterpiece of a lifetime, a work so unique, so divine that his fellow authors will grovel at his feet. Idolizing him as their new deity.

   His grin grew as the words came to life, each one displaying a different form of affection for the characters he had developed so long ago.

   Franklin knew a mystery novel following his character Leo, a deranged detective haunted by his past, would instantly draw a crowd. Adding that the supernatural took his body for a spin when he was younger, and since the experience, Leo has spent his time taking various drugs in secret to maintain a level head would add some unique flavors to the story.

Franklin, however, wasn't too different in real life. The author rocks in his creaky wooden chair into the long hours of the night, often lost in the blue screen as his life spirals into the story, and the two become one. The only issue for Franklin is he often forgets what is real to fiction. The lines blend, and the world falls apart around him. A whirlwind of issues spirals around him, yet the only he can see is a misplaced line of dialogue.

   Yet, the closer he got to the end, the more he smiled; the more Franklin's convinced he did it; he wrote the best mystery ever created. Despite his life falling apart, he assumed this would cure all his ills in a matter of moments, yet he knew his issues were around much earlier than his desire to write. The mystery is his escape. His anguish put to words for the world to see.

   When he started writing the final sentence with a mad scientist's fury with a breakthrough, he knew he was onto something. His brows soaked with sweat, his fingers attempting to slip at each stroke of a key, while his multiday worn shirt continues to ripen.

   Franklin completed the last sentence and smashed the enter key before typing 'The End" and pressed save. His screen flashed, sending a shiver up the older man's spine; he sat back, waiting to see the results, hoping that his story did indeed save.

   The screen settled, and the images became more defined, displaying his story in its entirety that, despite his concern, did save.

   The sweat built on the edges of his messy brows overflowed as he slumped into his creaky and shaky old rocking chair. The wood flexing beneath his full weight. The back-rest pinching and jabbing Franklins back like a nagging child. Franklin, too distracted to notice, only worried about brushing away the cool liquid dripping from his bushy brows.

   As his heart rate calmed, his arms drooped over the sides of his armrests, his eyelids slamming closed, giving his eyes a reprieve from the exhaustion of staring into the void of a computer screen for hours. A small headache slipped behind his left eye, something so miniscule that one would hardly notice, but it stuck out like a sore thumb for Franklin.

   The one part that could cause his mood to waiver, but it was justified with the rumbling of his stomach, a reminder of neglect. Glancing toward the clock, Franklin realized how quickly time passed him by. And despite his stomach's protests, it put food out of the question. But he couldn't turn down a cold beverage, plus it would satisfy his needs, at least for the time being.

   Franklin had to use more effort than intended to remove his aging frame from the unfriendly confines of his rocking chair. The creaky old piece of furniture cracked and settled after its owner removed himself.

  Franklin turned his attention toward the kitchen and began his traverse through his house. Like him, his home is anything but youthful. Its rough exterior was not much different than the decaying interior. It matched him in a sense. The two were paired together on their long road to recovery or death. It was hard to imagine one without the other, he supposed.