Inachevé

Twenty-seven - Eyes of the Storm

The writer lifted his pen, halting the letters that were indecipherably drawn onto his crinkled page. He then smiled wildly with delight.  He examined the page and pressed the tip of his pen against the bottom of his lip.  He wrinkled his brow in intense thought and looked around the room - as if the blankness of his walls would give him an idea for the ending of his story. 

When he caught his idea, his pen instantly dove in front of the last word and began running dutifully across the page.  As he wrote, his stringy blonde hair fell into his soft, brown eyes.  He stashed it harshly behind his ear and didn’t even feel the scratch he gave himself from his finger nails.  When he completed the page, he tossed his pen aside and grasped the final page with triumph.  The feeling of accomplishment made his lonely heart leap with inexpressible happiness.

He pressed his finished novel against his breast and began dancing around his small, brown room.  He trampled over his pens and paper carelessly as he worshiped the moment of success.  He laughed proudly as he pulled the book from his body and looked at the bold title: EYES OF THE STORM.  His face lit up as his eyes scrolled down to the bottom of the page.  It read, in the same lettering of the title: By TUCKER PANE and JIM AUSTEN. Tucker passed his hand thoughtfully over the cover of his and his friend’s first finished novel.  They had been working on it for about six years and had separated it into three parts.  He smiled again and placed the book onto the desk he had marred with his pen markings. 

He opened it up to the last page.

His eyes looked at it as if he were looking into the eyes of a woman he loved.  He sighed tenderly and looked at the place where “the end” phrase should have been.  But it wasn’t.  Tucker’s expressions changed suddenly and he stared at the page with wonderment.  He distinctly remembered having written it.  But, he soon found it meaningless to dwell on the subject and rewrote it.  As he wrote it, there was a sudden clap of lightning and he dropped to the floor with fright. 

With his hands over his head, he curled up into the tightest position he could create and peered up at his window.  Dark clouds swirled rapidly around the once calm, yellow moon and rain drops clattered onto the glass like knives hitting a concrete pavement.  Tucker breathed uneasily as he slowly made for the closed attic door.  As he crawled on his elbows and knees towards the egress, something told him to look back at the window. He did.  And what he saw gave him needle like chills up his back. 

Goosebumps formed quickly on his arms and his body went numb with horror.  He swallowed with difficulty as he turned his eyes away.  His breath came out in stuttered gasps as he jumped to his feet and lunged for the door.  His hand grabbed the cold, brass knob and his forehead collided with the wooden door.  Within seconds, pain met him and his head throbbed unbearably. 

He blinked several times before he turned his head back towards the window. His face drained as he saw the spotted, gray moon drifting melodiously beside the soft, fluffy clouds as if not a drop of rain had fallen from the enchanting sky. He sighed and slid to the floor. Clutching his knees and looking at the ground, he whispered. “It’s not real.  I’m just tired…I’ve got to tell Jim about this.”

About three hours later, Tucker’s telephone rang.  Tucker, who was in the middle of making a PB&J with apple sauce, Skittles and a honey bun, licked his fingers and walked over to the phone, which was attached to the wall outside the tiny kitchen.  “Hello?”

“Hey, Tucker, this is Jim.  You called earlier?”

“Yeah.  Where were you?”  Tucker asked.  He was a little frustrated that Jim hadn’t answered sooner.