Write Some… More?

The life of a writer isn't a particularly poetic one. Constant deadlines, writer's block, countless sleep-deprived nights, one might describe it as hell, but a writer wouldn't. In a writer's bohemia-driven life style, living constantly off of coffee, alcohol, and a couple of crumbs of stale bread is enough to satisfy his desires. Typically unloved and underappreciated, this particular breed of people grow resistant. From the outsider's perspective, it would be described as insanity. From a writer's point of view, it's called work.

In the flurry of burned-out cigarettes and empty gin bottles, a man slumbered off into the sleep. After a long day of building character and working, he had gotten little done. Again. Dreary and upset, he'd drunk himself to sleep once again. You'd call him an alcoholic, but his eyes told a different story - one of impoverishment and sadness. This man was none other than Atticus.

Half-past six, slowed heart pace, and a yellow light. Atticus shifted in his creaky chair and crossed his arms beneath his head. A light streak of smoke drifted slowly across his head. A cigarette glowed lightly, slowly dying out with Atticus. With a groan, he tossed his hand forward, sending papers flying and pencils rolling off the table. He felt around, still face down, searching for his drink. After thumping around softly, he found his stained glass, nearly empty by its weight. Sleepily, he pushed himself up and gulped down the last drops of his cheap gin. It was time to work again.

Atticus made his way to his restroom. He pushed up his burgundy suspenders on his admittedly scrawny, but lean shoulders and tucked in his dull brown shirt in. Atticus himself was a surprisingly handsome man – tall, thin, tossed-down hair and rectangular glasses that complimented his face. He was the type of person you'd think from a distance is a quiet and cute, yet unremarkable man, yet when you'd meet him, he turned out to be like a good book. He was undeniably smart, hardworking, and kind man, yet he suffered from himself. Drinking too much and now, smoking had begun to push him to and over his limits. But nonetheless, Atticus was a bright twenty-somethinger with an impressive career bound to be ahead of him.

Splashing his face with brisk cold water, he quickly snapped back into reality. It was a Monday, December 15th, 1975. He had a meeting with his publishers at the Rentz and Lasby Co. next week. Coffee was at an all-time low. Everything came back to him. He put on his glasses and smiled at himself in the mirror before leaving to start working.

Since coffee was running low again, Atticus brewed himself some nice clementine tea, his personal favorite. A smile stretched across his cheeks as he the caressing smell met his nose. Atticus enjoyed clementine tea since it was both zesty and sweet at the same time. He also believed it brought more inspiration to his writing, but he deep down that was from the gin he poured into his tea. His mug now full, he made his way to the wooden table he had woken up on. He stopped midway in shock.

"Good god, did I make that mess?"

Papers were everywhere, a slightly-cracked gin bottle dripped alcohol onto his work, and his writing utensils were scattered everywhere. It was dreadful, considering that Atticus typically held high standard to organizing his work. Without hesitation, Atticus placed his tea down on the shaky table and began sorting his writing out.

"Um, ergh… Ah yes, page six!"

Cluelessly, Atticus dug around in his papers. He managed to scavenge the first fifty pages of his novel in under five minutes. After another five, he had gathered the rest of his papers and was finally able to sit down with everything in its place. His clementine tea was now cold.

Like a typical day, Atticus began typing out thoughts on his trusty typewriter, pouring everything inside his brilliant mind on to the paper. Out of dozens of stupid ideas, he'd find a diamond in the rough. But today he stopped brainstorming abruptly. He looked at the sheet of paper and what he had just written:

Ggggggggggggggggg

Atticus groaned and remembered why all the gin bottles were here. He had bought the night before to treat his writer's block. Luckily for him, they were all empty – his liver was spared - but Atticus was in immense frustration. This could not be happening! He needed to have something to present to Rentz and Lasby by next week! Atticus rubbed his forehead tenderly, which was beginning to sweat.

"Think Atticus, think!"

Certainly he could do something about it.

"That's right! I could call Miss Pauling!"

Miss Pauling was an almost lovely lady working for a shady figure we all knew as the Administrator, mainly cleaning up messes and giving morale speeches (or spiels, as she liked to call them) to the wet boys. She had traits that made her very attractive. A fairly nice body, lovely face, glasses that made her appear almost exciting. However, her attitude had spoiled from a young girl's blissful innocence to cynicism. Regardless, she was just the person who could help Atticus. She had nine men who probably had millions of ideas swarming around their miserable brainless heads. The phone was is in his kitchen, so with no hesitance he immediately made his way to it.

After dialing, the phone buzzed sharply in intervals of about five seconds, irritating Atticus continuously who was suffering. He gripped his soaking forehead, hunching over the telephone. Finally, after about maybe 10 buzzes someone picked up the phone.

"Miss Pauling here, how may I help?"

"Hey Miss Pauling! It's me, Atticus!"

"How can I help you Atticus?" Miss Pauling's cynicism was tearing Atticus's enthusiasm apart, but he held strong.

"I was wondering if you could help me write a book-"

"Seven-thirty today. Be here in Teufort."

Her reply was brief and cold, much like Atticus's confusion after her sudden hang-up. He lowered the phone done on to the handle and combed his fingers inside this hair, clearly troubled. He tugged his brown sleeve up and glanced at his watch, eyes widening – five minutes before six! Pushing the crumpled sleeve back down, he scurried out of the kitchen, slipping into his fake-leather shoes and tossing on a jacket as he quickly made his way to his car.

As Atticus climbed out of the car, he saw Miss Pauling in the distance, leaning against the metal gate door. She was dressed sharply, as usual. A formal purple blouse and black skirt, she looked as professional as ever. Her two thick noir buns on both sides of her face complimented her azure-tinted cat eye glasses, which were nothing like Atticus's spectacles. It was strange, however, that the two knew each other, considering they were completely different. Unlike Atticus with enthusiasm and thoughts that could tangent out to anywhere, Miss Pauling always kept a straight mind, focused on one thing. She was referred to by her last name, whereas Atticus wanted to be addressed by his first name. If anything, the only thing they had in common was eyewear, and even that was completely different. All in all, it was an awkward and unexpected relationship, if you could even call it that.

"Miss Pauling!" Atticus yelled, shuffling towards her. The weather was bitterly cold, biting at Atticus's face. Fortunately, he parked nearby, so the cold didn't harass him too much. Inside, it was nice and warm, even though the complex was shabby.

"Hello, Miss Pauling! I was wondering if-"

Miss Pauling pointed at the mound of bags in the corner, each one bigger than the other and looking heavy.

"Work first, talk later."

"So… Miss… Pauling…" Atticus managed to pant out, exhausted from carrying bags around. Now that he had arrived to the shanty town called Teufort, he was greeted with manual labor to do. Miss Pauling paced around him with her clipboard and marked things off, ignoring him. Atticus heaved the last bag off himself and smashed it against the floor. The damn thing was full of rice, enough to feed an entire town! Atticus had to slunch over to catch his breath for several moments.

"So, uh, Miss Pauling. Could you help me with my book?"

Miss Pauling looked up from her clipboard with a stern expression, void of any compassion. As if contemplating, she stood there looking at Atticus quietly. The anticipation grew in Atticus. After all, he didn't spend the last hour hauling around shit to get a no, did he?

"No." Miss Pauling declared, turning around and heading down a narrow corridor, clipboard pressed against her chest. Not easily let down, Atticus rushed after her, hoping to coax her into helping him. He crunched himself between the red crusty wall and Miss Pauling, showing his teeth with a smile he hoped would sway her.

"Listen, I need a story. You get money-"

"I don't need your money."

"Wet work?"

"No."

Atticus was now clawing for anything. Continuing to follow her, his mind scrambled for ideas that would finally convince her to assist him.

"I can do your job for you!"

She peered at him, almost confused why he was still trying to convince her otherwise. She scoffed at him:

"Atticus, you couldn't handle it. Just give it up already."

"What about the mercs?"

Miss Pauling stopped walking and turned to face Atticus, who quickly shoved his hands into his pockets, still smiling gleefully. He had finally struck something in her.

"What about them? Half of them can't even write their own name!"

"Think about it, Pauling – It would keep them busy!"

She fixed her glasses and tilted down, visibly in thought.

"They could use the mental stimulation. I suppose I could make a contest; they're very competitive."

She lifted her head up and a faint smile appeared on her face, a truly rare sight from her. She lifted the clipboard which she had been clenching to her chest and scratched something down excitedly.

The reaction from the dull mercenaries was both amazing and disheartening. They all jumped to it at once, scrambling for paper similar to how Atticus scrambled about for his novel at home earlier. Not a single typewriter . Not a single smart mind in the room, apart from Miss Pauling and Atticus, of course. The writing session could be mistaken for a kindergarten drawing class. The Pyro even began gluing macaroni to his paper. Miss Pauling and Atticus threw each other worried looks as chaos brewed in the room.

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea." Atticus gulped, watching how the Soldier broke three pencil in a row. Miss Pauling nodded, equally worried about the situation.

"Well," she mumbled, "this ought to be interesting."

The two continued to stare at the unholy scene developing. Atticus had never seen such primitive behavior in his life and Ms. Pauling was disappoint as usual with the idiots as usual. Nudging Atticus, Ms. Pauling exited out the room, motioning Atticus to come along with her. Atticus, who was dumbfounded, turned around with his mouth wide-opened and followed her wise footsteps. As the two marched back up the corridor, they were frightened by a grizzly Russian roar that boomed from behind them. The quickened their pace as the shouting continued, the same three words being repeated again in a joyful and aggressive manner.

"Write Some Moooaaaarrr!"