He raised the pen slightly, took his hand over to the top line of the page. He slowly licked his
lips and opened his hazel eyes. Puckering his lips slightly he began to write.
The words were slow at first, written with a deliberate pace and attention to the hand writing,
then her got faster, frantic as he wrote, a desire to put the words on paper before they
vanished from his mind. His hand flew across the page leaving its trail of ink ideas.
The first page was finished and cast aside. The hand returned again to the top corner and
again began its flight. The fingers began to cramp, but the writer continued unabated, the
power of his mind expressed in the ink scratches on the page. His forehead
furrowed in
concentration the writer burned away the hours.
The clock in the hall beyond chimed the hours diligently, the digital clock in the study
electronically measured the day, but still the writer sat and worked. The mountain of paper
grew as the writer produced. Pacing and mood flashed from his mind to the page. Characters
were wrapped in the villains nefarious schemes; friends were made into lovers, lovers into
revenge, storm covered mountains abounded and men in tight body armour made heroic
attempts to save the world and all life on it. Ultimately the villain got his come upance, with
of course the usual ‘or did he...?’ twist in the ending. Men were heroic, women sexy and
alluring and the villains diabolical.
The last page slipped from the desk to the floor, joining its companions. The writer slowly
put down his half empty pen and began to message his hurting fingers. He slowly came out
of his trace, his eyes cleared and his stomach- not used to being ignored for so long growled
into life. His back hurt and his eyes burned but he did not care. He had finished. A feeling of
elation came over him. He leaned back into the leather backrest of his chair and smiled.
Another marathon over.
The writers bladder reminded him of the world outside his work. He stood on trembling legs.
Carefully, so as not to disturb the uneven pile of work he slipped away from his desk. The
pile fell over as he reached the door.
Heroes and lovers, friends and Villains slid over the carpet jumbled together in plot and
paper.
The writer heard the pile fall. A long contented sign escaped his lips, the satisfaction of the
thump as the paper fell a sign of his efforts. He closed the door in pride.