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The premise the intruder in my home office handed to me was brilliant.
“I don’t have anything to throw at you that won’t hurt.” I growled at my supposed friend.
He chuckled from the recliner where he was relaxing … my recliner … in my office … taking another sip of his sweet tea. “It’s a great story idea, admit it.”
“Yes, but not the one I was working on.” My glare did not turn him into cinders. “I had everything set up for a night of typing.”
“This still would be a night of typing.”
“But not the right typing. … The ones I have notes for." I shook papers with my illegible scratching at him. "The story I have been thinking about all day.”
His smug amusement wasn’t helping my frustration. “You are coming up with the dialogue right now, aren’t you?”
“The voices they hurt.” I whimpered for effect.
Reality, I wanted to bash something. Instead I turned to the empty word processing document where I had been about to key in the opening scene I had puzzled out during lunch. The one I had been holding in my fingers for the moment I was home in front of a keyboard.
He was right. I was coming up with dialogue and actions and a dozen different ways the premise could be used. And those people were arguing with the other thought-people I had been playing around with all day. What a mess.
Snapping the recliner down, he left with a jaunty, “Well then, my work here is done.” No doubt he was going to play video games on my X-box before slipping down the hall to his apartment.
For me, my flash for the night is only starting. At least I got two, maybe three new ideas. I was behind on my blog so ideas were helpful.
I took a moment to add “Get something to throw” to my to-do list, and then started typing.
(words 328 - first published 4/4/2013; republished new blog format 9/4/2016)