He was busy typing away at his laptop in the living room. He takes his job as a novelist very seriously, although he has never really published any forms of literature, novels or otherwise. He occasionally sends a draft or two to some publishers, but his enthusiastic ideas and slightly desperate pleas are often greeted with total silence.
He feels thirsty.
He noticed a mug of brown liquid on the table. He sipped it.
He thinks it tastes like coffee, so therefore it is coffee.
His phone rang. He picked it up.
"Hello? Ma? Yes, it's me. Yes, I'm home. No, I'm not coming back for dinner today, I've eaten. Sorry. Maybe tomorrow. Oh, really? Never thought that that would happen. How's Pa? Oh. That's nice. Okay, bye I need to work now. Love you."
She hung up, so he hung up, and the call was terminated.
He sipped the "coffee" again. It tastes like tea this time, so therefore it was tea.
He washed the tea/coffee down the sink. He doesn't need any more uncertainty in his life.
He turns off his laptop and switches the lights off. He goes to bed. Slumber embraces him the moment his head hits the softness of the pillow. He dreams.
And in his dream a failed novelist is busy typing away at his laptop in the living room, until he felt thirsty....
YOU ARE READING
Short Fictions, Thrills And Wonders
Short StoryA silent night falls, quiet and menacing, a gauze over the bright light of the day. A writer, fueled by coffee and daydreams keep typing into midnight, fingers moving furiously. These are his stories. Cover by:@-hhangry
