The End of Something

11 Aug

“You bastard, I can’t take this anymore.”
She took the stack of papers and launched them out the window. The place was raining manuscript pages.
“I can’t stand to hear the banging of this stupid machine anymore. Every night. I can’t take it.”
She hoisted up the Underwood and went for the window again, only she didn’t have the courage. Or the physical strength. Instead she slammed it on the floor as hard as she could. The carriage and the lever and the feed roller and the typewheel all came flying out. I sat at the little table and watched it all. I couldn’t stop her. She took a bottle of wine and started spilling it all over the broken typewriter. All over the floors and rugs.
“Why are you doing this? It’s good wine.”
“Because that’s all that matters,” she said. “Your writing and your wine. Sure.”
It looked like blood had been spilled. The crisp, fall air outside smelled like railroad.


4 Responses to “The End of Something”

  1. Janete Cabral 11/08/2007 at 4:43 PM #

    Great work as always ::

    It pierced right through me…You captured that moment well.

    Sorry been away, on the road with my parents at the moment…showing them New Zealand and checking in every so often…I have a bit of catching up to do soon :)

  2. Lx 12/08/2007 at 12:09 AM #

    thanks janete.
    travelling around new zealand
    beats reading this any day.

  3. Kunstemæcker 12/08/2007 at 8:10 AM #

    and sometimes the railroad smells like fall air.

  4. slyboots2 12/08/2007 at 4:14 PM #

    Ah, I love the smell of wet creosote in the morning…

    And blood= wine very biblical, sunshine!

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