A/N- This was originally supposed to continue, and I am sorry for the
delay. My only drafts of the 2nd and upcoming 3rd chapters were taken. So,
someone actually "Stole my story." Now that's ironic.
I would like to make a formal dedication of this story to Cindy Chen- keep
smilin', girl!
By the way, this chapter involves Mort's conversations with himself. Just so you know and don't get too confused.
Mort Rainey stared blankly at the computer screen, fingering a slinky.
Normally this would have been okay; after all, sometimes words did not come as easily to him as he would have hoped. Unfortunately, this day marked one and a half months of day in, day out staring and not writing.
Damn, but writer's block could be a bitch, he mused.
Sighing and reclining, he surveyed the desktop. Nothing new.
Not that there would be, but who could tell for sure? When you drop a stone, it'll fall to the floor, but there is always that chance that it might float to the ceiling.
Grinning at this proverb, it was slowly erased as he caught his eye on the blinking cursor.
What's wring, Mort? Having trouble writing the ending? Said a voice in one of the many hallways of his mind.
Yep. It's like this every day. I need to finish it, he answered.
An insatiable hunger, the voice agreed.
That's exactly it. Since when have you become so eloquent?
Since you began reading all those books. You remember, don't you Mort? You never read Amy's favorite storied until she disappeared.
He did remember. He remembered Amy, and their wedding day, and the time she had cried because he had ignored her for weeks, finishing a story. . . Tsk tsk, said the voice again. Letting your mind wander?
What else am I going to do?
You could ask him for help.
Who?
Look.
Mort looked at the computer screen, and saw that one word had been written, the cursor blinking just after the "r".
Shooter.
He's not here, though, Mort though bitterly.
He could be. He'd help you, you know that.
He mulled this idea over in his head, worrying his bottom lip.
After all, Shooter had written an ending to his short story that far surpassed his own.
He stood up, his decision made. Walking swiftly to his bedroom, he opened the closet door, not bothering to put on a light.
Where was that hatbox?
In the near darkness, it had taken him seven minutes to find what he was looking for.
As he put the familiar looking black hat on, he turned to glance in the bedside mirror, a crooked grin playing across his face.
"My, but that hat does become you." The words came out in a slow, southern drawl.
Thank you very much, Mr. Shooter. Perhaps we can start off on better terms? Mort thought hopefully.
Perhaps, Shooter answered, nodding once.
Late September and risen spectacularly to the occasion, the vibrant golds, reds and browns in brilliant contrast to the lake. Autumn was here, and as a cool wind rustled the leaves around Dave Newsome, it was apparent that it wanted to make itself known.
The sky was overcast, and the clouds were darkening. Dave shifted uncomfortably as he looked around, then made up his mind, rapping sharply on the door.
There was no response.
"Mort?" He called in, pausing again before knocking. "Mort, it's Dave. Can I talk to you for a minute?"
Still no answer.
"Mort, your car is here, so I know your in. Can I talk to you? It'll only- " He was cut short when the door swung open to reveal a cheerful Mort.
"Oh, Dave! Good to see you!"
Dave nodded, forcing a smile.
"How is you needlework going?"
"Uh, fine. Thank you." There was a pause in which both looked at each other, Mort still smiling obliviously.
"Could I, uh, come in for a moment, if you don't mind?"
"Oh, sure." He opened the door, and let Dave in.
"You want something to eat? I've got some corn in the kitchen."
"No, thank you."
"Are you sure? It's quite good."
"No, I'm fine." Mort shrugged and disappeared into the kitchen.
"Hey, Mort. I have a friend I'd like you too meet in town."
The man's head reappeared. "Oh?"
"Yes. I was hoping you'd ride with me into town."
Keep your voice steady, he thought as he spoke.
"Sure. Let me put on some shoes."
It's almost over, Dave thought.
Almost over. . .
By the way, this chapter involves Mort's conversations with himself. Just so you know and don't get too confused.
Mort Rainey stared blankly at the computer screen, fingering a slinky.
Normally this would have been okay; after all, sometimes words did not come as easily to him as he would have hoped. Unfortunately, this day marked one and a half months of day in, day out staring and not writing.
Damn, but writer's block could be a bitch, he mused.
Sighing and reclining, he surveyed the desktop. Nothing new.
Not that there would be, but who could tell for sure? When you drop a stone, it'll fall to the floor, but there is always that chance that it might float to the ceiling.
Grinning at this proverb, it was slowly erased as he caught his eye on the blinking cursor.
What's wring, Mort? Having trouble writing the ending? Said a voice in one of the many hallways of his mind.
Yep. It's like this every day. I need to finish it, he answered.
An insatiable hunger, the voice agreed.
That's exactly it. Since when have you become so eloquent?
Since you began reading all those books. You remember, don't you Mort? You never read Amy's favorite storied until she disappeared.
He did remember. He remembered Amy, and their wedding day, and the time she had cried because he had ignored her for weeks, finishing a story. . . Tsk tsk, said the voice again. Letting your mind wander?
What else am I going to do?
You could ask him for help.
Who?
Look.
Mort looked at the computer screen, and saw that one word had been written, the cursor blinking just after the "r".
Shooter.
He's not here, though, Mort though bitterly.
He could be. He'd help you, you know that.
He mulled this idea over in his head, worrying his bottom lip.
After all, Shooter had written an ending to his short story that far surpassed his own.
He stood up, his decision made. Walking swiftly to his bedroom, he opened the closet door, not bothering to put on a light.
Where was that hatbox?
In the near darkness, it had taken him seven minutes to find what he was looking for.
As he put the familiar looking black hat on, he turned to glance in the bedside mirror, a crooked grin playing across his face.
"My, but that hat does become you." The words came out in a slow, southern drawl.
Thank you very much, Mr. Shooter. Perhaps we can start off on better terms? Mort thought hopefully.
Perhaps, Shooter answered, nodding once.
Late September and risen spectacularly to the occasion, the vibrant golds, reds and browns in brilliant contrast to the lake. Autumn was here, and as a cool wind rustled the leaves around Dave Newsome, it was apparent that it wanted to make itself known.
The sky was overcast, and the clouds were darkening. Dave shifted uncomfortably as he looked around, then made up his mind, rapping sharply on the door.
There was no response.
"Mort?" He called in, pausing again before knocking. "Mort, it's Dave. Can I talk to you for a minute?"
Still no answer.
"Mort, your car is here, so I know your in. Can I talk to you? It'll only- " He was cut short when the door swung open to reveal a cheerful Mort.
"Oh, Dave! Good to see you!"
Dave nodded, forcing a smile.
"How is you needlework going?"
"Uh, fine. Thank you." There was a pause in which both looked at each other, Mort still smiling obliviously.
"Could I, uh, come in for a moment, if you don't mind?"
"Oh, sure." He opened the door, and let Dave in.
"You want something to eat? I've got some corn in the kitchen."
"No, thank you."
"Are you sure? It's quite good."
"No, I'm fine." Mort shrugged and disappeared into the kitchen.
"Hey, Mort. I have a friend I'd like you too meet in town."
The man's head reappeared. "Oh?"
"Yes. I was hoping you'd ride with me into town."
Keep your voice steady, he thought as he spoke.
"Sure. Let me put on some shoes."
It's almost over, Dave thought.
Almost over. . .