[ WP ] The Writer : A War of Words

The writer sat hunched over his desk, his quill scratching intermittently against his paper. A smattering of crumpled sheets lie around him, and the light from his lamp shines barely enough to be visible. He sits up and wipes a hand across his brow. *I've been at this for hours, * he thought, *and I've nothing to show for it but scrap. * 
 
 The writer sighed, and leaned forward to continue his work- if it could be called that- when suddenly, he **felt** it. Something was different, something had changed. He felt... important. As if what he was writing would make a difference. Then, inspiration struck. He feverishly dipped and began to write. 
 
 *It was a dark and stormy night... * 
 
 **BOOM! ** The writer jumped as thunder rolled. *That storm blew up rather quickly. * He shook his head and returned to his paper. 
 
 *It was a dark and stormy night... aside from rain and thunder, no sound could be heard across the landscape. If one were to close his eyes and listen, it would seem he was the last man alive. Yet, a presence could still be felt in the little town. Movement, and soft voices. Whispers and moans. * 
 
 Here he turned, startled by a scratching at his window. A cat, perhaps. 
 
 *Brother Kenneth found this town by accident, as it tends to happen. A message sent by a doting mother, worried about their son's well-being. A fever, frightening in its magnitude, and terrible in its wrath. He'd heard the same story many times before. Even as he made his way there, he knew all he'd find was death and stink. Yet still, he prayed that there would be a purpose to this visit. He knew in his heart that God would not send him on fruitless ventures, and yet he felt as the fig tree that Christ ordered to wither and die. He did not produce, he did not assist. He stopped at the wooden sign posted at the edge of the town. * 
 
 **BALNEYVILLE** 
 
 **POPULATION: 38** 
 
 *Thirty-eight? That could be a problem. * 
 
 ( Writing muscle is tired, as am I. Will continue if requested. )
