Mort Rainey knew that every book had to have a perfect ending, and he
had found one, in at least one of his stories. However, one story, his own
story, seemed to be stuck in that gray area before completion; it wasn't
white, or black, it was undecided. He knew it had to have an ending, but
finding where one chapter stopped and another began was a difficult sort of
thing. Call it a feeling, but somehow Mort felt that the events of a few
months ago were merely the ending of a chapter, like there was more, ready
for him if he should pick up the pen.
One last time.
As he pulled himself out of his ocean of thoughts, Mort ran a brush for what seemed to be the millionth time through his hair. Ah, but who was counting? Not me, he answered himself, grinning at this, and revealing perfectly straitened teeth to the mirror, which had been replaced. His appearance had much improved since the unfortunate ending of Amy Rainey, although he found himself forgetting more and more often of how exactly it happened. He knew he had done it, and so did the police, but they couldn't figure it out. And it was because of that, he was still in his cabin, and not in a jail cell, or possibly, lying underneath the ground. He removed his glasses and ran some water over the lenses, drying them with the blue and white checkered sweater he was wearing. He had become much more orderly, preferring to look sharp, as the cops had taken to dropping by for visits more and more frequently as of late. Checking his appearance once more, he walked out of the bedroom, and took a seat at the desk, where his laptop sat with word processing ready for him. The desk itself was neat and tidy, the drawers organized to extreme lengths, and the only things taking up residency on the top, besides the computer, were the few pens, and a plate of two eaten ears of corn. The laptop had been placed directly in the center, so to hide the carving of the word "Shooter" into the wood. He stared at the screen, watching the cursor blink repeatedly at the top of the document, which had remained blank these past weeks. It had rhythm, like the ticking of a clock, or the perpetual drip of water from the sink downstairs.
What to write...
Every story follows a basic pattern. You have the set up of plot, the crescendo to whatever dramatic event is written in, and then the gradual, but inevitable end. As he thought about this, a new idea began to form. Maybe the Window was his tale, and it had ended with "...even to him." and that he would live the rest of his life peacefully. Mort leaned back, crossing his arms, and frowning slightly.
No, no no, that couldn't be right, he argued with himself. That form doesn't, no, can't end in the middle of a book. It spans throughout. Therefore, he had to write the ending of his story, and he had to make it interesting. Sighing, he stood up, and grabbing the plate, walked down the stairs to the kitchen. As he tossed the remains of the previous night's dinner in the trash, he helped himself to another ear, which had already cooked. His kitchen counters were covered in corn, the husks still intact. It had become almost an obsession with him now and it was basically his diet, not that he minded. As he poured the steaming water from the pot into the sink, and proceeded to sprinkle some salt onto his lunch, his mind wandered once again on an ending. Taking a bite, he sincerely wished Shooter could have been here to help him.
He had, after all, written such a beautiful ending.
One last time.
As he pulled himself out of his ocean of thoughts, Mort ran a brush for what seemed to be the millionth time through his hair. Ah, but who was counting? Not me, he answered himself, grinning at this, and revealing perfectly straitened teeth to the mirror, which had been replaced. His appearance had much improved since the unfortunate ending of Amy Rainey, although he found himself forgetting more and more often of how exactly it happened. He knew he had done it, and so did the police, but they couldn't figure it out. And it was because of that, he was still in his cabin, and not in a jail cell, or possibly, lying underneath the ground. He removed his glasses and ran some water over the lenses, drying them with the blue and white checkered sweater he was wearing. He had become much more orderly, preferring to look sharp, as the cops had taken to dropping by for visits more and more frequently as of late. Checking his appearance once more, he walked out of the bedroom, and took a seat at the desk, where his laptop sat with word processing ready for him. The desk itself was neat and tidy, the drawers organized to extreme lengths, and the only things taking up residency on the top, besides the computer, were the few pens, and a plate of two eaten ears of corn. The laptop had been placed directly in the center, so to hide the carving of the word "Shooter" into the wood. He stared at the screen, watching the cursor blink repeatedly at the top of the document, which had remained blank these past weeks. It had rhythm, like the ticking of a clock, or the perpetual drip of water from the sink downstairs.
What to write...
Every story follows a basic pattern. You have the set up of plot, the crescendo to whatever dramatic event is written in, and then the gradual, but inevitable end. As he thought about this, a new idea began to form. Maybe the Window was his tale, and it had ended with "...even to him." and that he would live the rest of his life peacefully. Mort leaned back, crossing his arms, and frowning slightly.
No, no no, that couldn't be right, he argued with himself. That form doesn't, no, can't end in the middle of a book. It spans throughout. Therefore, he had to write the ending of his story, and he had to make it interesting. Sighing, he stood up, and grabbing the plate, walked down the stairs to the kitchen. As he tossed the remains of the previous night's dinner in the trash, he helped himself to another ear, which had already cooked. His kitchen counters were covered in corn, the husks still intact. It had become almost an obsession with him now and it was basically his diet, not that he minded. As he poured the steaming water from the pot into the sink, and proceeded to sprinkle some salt onto his lunch, his mind wandered once again on an ending. Taking a bite, he sincerely wished Shooter could have been here to help him.
He had, after all, written such a beautiful ending.