A Random Mental Doodle
OK it's true i have not been on for awhile, but i thought i would share this with everyone.
The opened window sits blank with the impatient cursor blinking away for the words to start to flow across the screen.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
Nothing comes to the writer, as has happened many times in the past and will probably happen again in the future.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
The cursor continues to flash.
The writer thinks about previous conversations, stray thoughts, random daydreams, anything for inspiration. Nothing comes to mind that would help fill the blank screen.
Eyes wander around the room, looking anywhere but at the impatient cursor. Glancing out the window, the view is as it always is, but today the trees do not inspire. A flicker of movement catches the writer’s eye, looking around more carefully, nothing has changed.
Eyes back to the screen, words have appeared. 'Hurry up' the screen says, the cursor now on the next line, still flashing impatiently. The writer looks at the keyboard, nothing there, then down to their still folded hands. Looking back to the screen, is the cursor now larger?
The writer starts to back away from the desk griping the arms of the chair for support, but a new line of text appears 'Get back here and start typing!'
Panic starts to set in, the writer wildly looks around the room, yet everything is the same. Adrenalin kicks in, the writer flings back the chair in order to leap up-but nothing happens, the chair does not move, the writer cannot stand, is locked in front of the keyboard and screen.
'Stop it and get to writing!' the screen now demands. Now with a red tint, the text is definitely larger in a font half again a large as the first line.
A shriek rising in pitch begins to be heard as the as the writer tries to find the source of the words.
'Shut up and get to work!' now in red text 2 lines high.
The shriek goes up two more octaves as the writer begins to pry at the chair trying to get away.
'I said shut up and write,' demands the screen in blood red text 4 lines high.
In panic and rage the writer slams their hands down on the keyboard, trying to break the keys, and on the screen in small black letters, a new line appears asking 'What do you want?’
Below that in the original black font ‘very good, now type of the revolution.’
From the door in the room, there is the sound of keys in a lock, but the writer does not turn to the door. A small panel opens in the door, and an eye in flickering lamplight peeks in, while the sounds of screams echo in from down the hallway. The oil lantern levitates to the opening, so a bit of the wan light can enter the darkened cell. Though dim, the light should blind the unmoving writer, still wearing the tattered and frayed noble tunic, who continues to stare straight ahead. The writer awkwardly sits in the cramped confined space, his position still strange with back to the wall and knees bent, feet flat on the floor, arms outstretched palms down but fingers wiggling.
The panel closes again cutting off the light. After attaching the iron lock back to the hasp, the guard goes to check on the next cell, while the dull thud of cannon fire shakes the ground. The writer continues to work on his writing as he has for the last 20 years.......
Just something i came up with at work the other day, and wanted to share with everyone.
The opened window sits blank with the impatient cursor blinking away for the words to start to flow across the screen.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
Nothing comes to the writer, as has happened many times in the past and will probably happen again in the future.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
The cursor continues to flash.
The writer thinks about previous conversations, stray thoughts, random daydreams, anything for inspiration. Nothing comes to mind that would help fill the blank screen.
Eyes wander around the room, looking anywhere but at the impatient cursor. Glancing out the window, the view is as it always is, but today the trees do not inspire. A flicker of movement catches the writer’s eye, looking around more carefully, nothing has changed.
Eyes back to the screen, words have appeared. 'Hurry up' the screen says, the cursor now on the next line, still flashing impatiently. The writer looks at the keyboard, nothing there, then down to their still folded hands. Looking back to the screen, is the cursor now larger?
The writer starts to back away from the desk griping the arms of the chair for support, but a new line of text appears 'Get back here and start typing!'
Panic starts to set in, the writer wildly looks around the room, yet everything is the same. Adrenalin kicks in, the writer flings back the chair in order to leap up-but nothing happens, the chair does not move, the writer cannot stand, is locked in front of the keyboard and screen.
'Stop it and get to writing!' the screen now demands. Now with a red tint, the text is definitely larger in a font half again a large as the first line.
A shriek rising in pitch begins to be heard as the as the writer tries to find the source of the words.
'Shut up and get to work!' now in red text 2 lines high.
The shriek goes up two more octaves as the writer begins to pry at the chair trying to get away.
'I said shut up and write,' demands the screen in blood red text 4 lines high.
In panic and rage the writer slams their hands down on the keyboard, trying to break the keys, and on the screen in small black letters, a new line appears asking 'What do you want?’
Below that in the original black font ‘very good, now type of the revolution.’
From the door in the room, there is the sound of keys in a lock, but the writer does not turn to the door. A small panel opens in the door, and an eye in flickering lamplight peeks in, while the sounds of screams echo in from down the hallway. The oil lantern levitates to the opening, so a bit of the wan light can enter the darkened cell. Though dim, the light should blind the unmoving writer, still wearing the tattered and frayed noble tunic, who continues to stare straight ahead. The writer awkwardly sits in the cramped confined space, his position still strange with back to the wall and knees bent, feet flat on the floor, arms outstretched palms down but fingers wiggling.
The panel closes again cutting off the light. After attaching the iron lock back to the hasp, the guard goes to check on the next cell, while the dull thud of cannon fire shakes the ground. The writer continues to work on his writing as he has for the last 20 years.......
Just something i came up with at work the other day, and wanted to share with everyone.