[ WP ] The Writer : A War of Words

I guess I'll start out by 
 
 *Hartwell was magnificent. A skilled clarinet player and a charming young man, he lead his life with nothing but sheer ambition and grace. He made every day count, and showed nothing but respect and kindness to his peers, all of whom loved and enjoyed him. One day, Hartwell was -* 
 
 `` Fuck it, I do n't know where I am going. I wanted to just sit here and write and grand story, with characters brimming with detail and a story to knock your socks off. But no, I sit here as I feel the cold chill of dea'' 
 
 As a white hot burning light beamed around the edges of his closed bedroom door. 
 
 Eddy was a tiring young writer who lacked self confidence and faith in his work. He found himself growing lethargic and unmotivated, and finally planned on writing one last story. Passing a thread forum online, he found the perfect place to type his thoughts, when the white light shined from behind the door. 
 
 He covered his eyes for the adjusting shock, momentarily peaking back past his elbow. With a gulp, he picked up his laptop and started towards the door. Holding his hand in front of the knob, he pulled back and looked at his screen. He typed, 
 
 `` th creeping outside my door. Only I hope that Death feels merciful on this day, and returns to his paranormal dimension.'' 
 
 The white light faded away, as Eddy sat down with sigh. 
 
 `` I almost did it again. I almost killed my self. I've been thinking about it all week, you know, just relaxing on the chopping block, waiting to be in a coffin box. Same old shit. Got real close though.'' 
 
 He looked down and frowned, and began tracing the wrinkles in his hand with his opposite finger. He looked up, and began typing. 
 
 `` Looks like I got an'M' stitched in my hand. Kinda weird, is n't it? What does it mean? Murder? Muerto? Mankind? Strange. My other hand has it too. I suppose we're not meant to know. Otherwise we'd know, no? Anyway. Oh my, it's getting warm in here.'' 
 
 Suddenly the ceiling fan began spinning on its own, rising to incredible speeds, bashing left and right, cracking the edges of the ceiling above it. Eddy stuck his hand up to pull the lever, but the pull string was flinging too sporadically to grasp it. He sat back down and rubbed his temples. 
 
 The walls began to howl and moan. The wall unit air condition burst with a high volume blast of water, beginning to fill the room. He yelped at the crash and snatched his laptop into the air. 
 
 With one hand clutching it to life, and the other scattering away at the keyboard, he wrote, 
 
 `` It's a good thing my laptop is water proof. I really need to fix the plumbing on this damnable house. I'm going to turn off the air conditioner.'' 
 
 Water stopped pumping from the opened air unit, conveniently at waist level. Clutching his laptop, he hastily begins to type again. 
 
 `` I wish it were dry in here.'' 
 
 With a blink, a sporadic heat wave ignited everything in the room, turning it all into charred roasted material, including Eddy's skin. He fell onto his side after a tumble from the magnificent heat blast, as his laptop hit the ground next to him, unscathed. 
 
 He wept with a shrilled moan, unable to reach the laptop. And so he lay, biding his time. Twitching his toes. Only listening to the hum of the laptop. In a solid state of stillness and silence. A dry, alienated portion of space and time, a room of ashen bedroom furniture, bookshelves and musical instruments. 
 
 `` Perhaps this is how I'm supposed to die,'' he thought. `` My only regret, was not writing my one last story.'' And he lay there, for hours. Days. Years. Unable to tell the tale of time and fable or dreams of haven. 
 
 *'' And so,'' * Hartwell wrote, *'' Eddy waited for eternity. Or what had seemed to be eternity. He waited until the fabric of his mind would dissolve into a faintly yolk and leak through the sockets in his eyes. * 
 
 *'' Eddy passed like he had lived, passively and lethargically, watching the days roll by. He was left to stare at his unfinished demise -- his final thoughts and failed attempts to save himself. In the end, it was his own undoing. * 
 
 Hartwell shut his notebook, and set it under his chair. He pulled his sleeves down and cuffed them to his white cloth gloves. With a sigh, he picked up his clarinet, and passed the curtain revealing the screaming concert hall. 

