Distracted Writer
Lit — April’s Prompt: Distraction
Now was the time to write.
The writer sat in her small bedroom, the computer on her desk the only light in the dark, ready to write. The cat had been fed, the chores had been completed, her day job had been done, and the cat had been fed again. But as she began the first tentative typing on the laptop, little did she know that she would be…. Distracted.
Creak.
Meow.
“Oh, what now?” She said, turning to the door.
Turned out it was her cat. Probably due to 1. Her hamster hadn’t learned to sound like that yet, and 2. She didn’t have a hamster.
The writer laughed to herself as she thought that line, thinking that she might add that to her writing.
“Probably good to start soon lass, because it looks like so far you’ve contributed as much to literature as that dead bird I left you as a gift this morning.”
The writer frowned. She looked down at her cat. “Did you…?”
“Yes.” He said, with his deep purr of a voice, looking bored.
“I didn’t think you could talk.”
“Well, I never had anything I wanted to say before,” he said, pouncing on the writer's desk. “Especially to you,” He then closed his eyes and stretched, curling up on the laptop.
“Do you mind?” The writer asked.
“Nope.” Said the cat.
The writer sighed. She looked out the window.
It was a clear night outside, with hardly any stars. That was because some had already fallen.
Flashes of green light burned from further in the town, but the writer wasn’t bothered, as she needed to write.
“Off you go,” The writer said, pushing the cat off her laptop to which he gracefully landed on the floor.
The cat turned to her, and said, “You’ll probably just write something terrible and predictable again, as always.”
The writer decided not to dignify her talking, psychic cat with an answer.
After the cat left, she was further distracted when her flat began to shake. Crying out in frustration, she looked out the window to see where the noise was coming from, only to see gigantic blue tripods stomping through the town and shooting lasers.
“Why now? Why do aliens have to invade now?” She cried out.
But she would not let that stop her. She would write something. Now just to work out where to start…
“Excuse me.” Said a voice behind her, “Are you writing something?”
The writer rolled her eyes and turned to look behind her, seeing a ghost, a floating see-through spirit. “Well, I’m trying to.”
“Hmmm, may I suggest you open with a killer first line?”
“And what would you know about writing?”
“Well, I have you know that I’m the ghost of William Shakespeare.”
“Really, because you just look like a floating sheet with eye holes to me.”
“That’s what you look like when you die in bed.”
“I see.”
“So would you like my writing tips or not?”
“Go on then.”
“Ok, begin with something fun. Like a knock-knock joke.”
The writer stared at the ghost. “You’re not Willam Shakespeare, are you?”
“I am. Willam Shakespeare the excellent plumber who died in this flat fifteen years ago.”
“Leave me alone. Before I call the exorcist.”
“Suit yourself,” The ghost said and ‘woo-woo-ed’ away, dematerializing into the ether.
The writer stared at her work. She put her hands to her temples. She then let the demonic muse of procrastination take over and looked out the window. She noticed that the tripods had fallen and the aliens were already dead, probably from the common cold or something similar. They really should have brought their chicken soup with them.
On the horizon, the sun was rising, and she realized it had just turned to morning. She stared at the computer screen, the blaring white blankness of the word document seemingly screaming in her face.
“Well, maybe I can start tomorrow,” she said, crawling into bed.
