Burning Life on High Winds
Ch. 1
The Tribulations Of An Author
Morton Rainey, sometimes to his friends called Mort, was one of those guys that on Sunday killed for an ice cold beer and a good action movie; you know the ones with lots of guts and gore and crash sequences. Mort Rainey was also one of those guys who when something was unresolved in the course of his life, it would mock him into reluctant submission, wherein he would spend hours, sometimes days (if he had the patience), to try and find a solution to his problem.
A perfect example of this was his writing. Sometimes he would have those days where anything he wrote on the paper was satisfactory and he could give a great smirk at it. Other times he felt like flinging the laptop in which crap was produced and deleted and then proceeding to sawing of his hands to prevent any other concoctions of pure garbage to make its way into his head. He probably could do the laptop thing; he's been tempted many a time. The saw thing however was a definite issue. He was squeamish at the sight of blood, and trust him, if there was enough of it, he would sway and faint like a corseted air-restricted lass, and be conked out for several days before being able, or a wanting to open his eyes. This squeamishness is a bold observation that should remain in this reader's mind through the course of the story as it unfolds.
As was being said, Mort's writing was one of many moods. But its particular mood at the present time ( and even place as he was sitting at his immensely spacious desk, raking his long hands through his brown tinted blonde hair) was that of those days of utter disgust. He couldn't stand knowing that he was just in such a roll, to be stopped suddenly by a stubborn dead end that blockaded all thought from passing through his head to his fingers. And whatever thought that managed to get through was the retarded ones. Ironic isn't it? You would think the strong intelligent thoughts would be the ones to break the barrier. Maybe the wall took pity on the ignorant thoughts and gave them free passage just to annoy him. Well it was working.
Pushing back from his desk on his cool leather wheely chair, he straightened the silver framed glasses on his face, grabbed the empty glass that once held mountain dew this morning, and went down stairs in order to pursue another one. In the back of his mind he kept procuring some faint hope that maybe a drink will cure his sudden bout of incapability. Wasn't going to happen, but there are always ups and downs to faith, hope and trust. You never knew the outcome.
And just as he thought this, there was a sharp rap on his cabin door. This struck him as odd, seeing as the last time his door was knocked was three years ago, when that frustrating arthritic sheriff came to tell him basically that he was a murderer and that he would have to stay away from town. No problem. He didn't like it in town anyway. Too plain; no vibrancy.
Cautious and weary, he approached the door with trepidation echoing in his feet as he crept closer. Taking a deep breath, he went to reach for the door when the stubborn, and slightly agitated knocking pursued again.
"Just a minute!" he said exasperated, and wrenched open the door without hesitation, expecting some annoying law figure on the other side.
But there was a new surprise in life's bag of tricks, because the figure was certainly not a seventy year old arthritic sheriff.
It was, or what appeared to be, a mid-twenties gorgeous woman.
"Hello Uncle Mort."