Fiction Friday #157

This week’s Fiction Friday prompt:
A writer’s computer begins to flash messages on its screen, as if trying to communicate.

As Allen McCann – yes, Allen McCann the famous author – sat in the plush high-back chair in front of his antique roll-top desk staring blankly into the screen of his notebook computer, a trail of smoke from the Camel in the marble ashtray next to his mouse wisped up and caught him in the eye. Although a seasoned smoker, the smoke still stung his eyes and he avoided it at all costs. This night his mind was on other things; the deadline for his fourth novel Erotic Demons was coming up and he was only thirty thousand words in – the contract called for a minimum of fifty. The sudden pain snapped him out of his trance – he winced, leaned back in his chair, and threw his head back with his hands over his face.

“Come on! Where are you?” he yelled, although muffled from the shielding of his palms over his lips. He pulled his hands down his face, drawing his features into a contortion like that of The Screamer and then pushed them up again until his fingers gripped his hair. He pulled sharply, then taking a deep breath calmed himself and asked “where are you, Rasmussen? I need you.” His muse had an odd way of showing up at all the wrong times; he wouldn’t show when Allen needed to write but would when he didn’t have a way to.

allen

He tilted his head forward – he thought he saw the screen blink. Huh. Must have been my imagination. Leaning back in his chair again, he drew his eyes to the ceiling, once again intent on imagining shapes in the ridges and valleys of the popcorn texture above him. “God, I need a break.” Turning his head to look at the clock on the far end of the room

hey
allen

He thought he saw the screen blink again. Not before noting the time – it was well after 11:00 at night and his wife had long since gone to bed – he looked at his laptop and exclaimed “worthless piece of shit Sony. You pay over a grand and six months in it starts to break. I knew I should have bought a Mac!” Frustrated and tired, he reached his hand out to close the lid.

allen

His arm did nothing to hide what was on the screen. Surprised, he recoiled his arm and exclaimed softly to himself “what is this?”

its me

Rubbing his eyes in disbelief, he thought Okay, Allen! Looks like someone needs to hit the sack!

stay

Allen could not believe what he was seeing. Was this actually happening? Or had he fallen asleep;  was he actually dreaming this? What sick bastard hacked the computer?

youre awake allen

Allen stared at the screen in disbelief. Who are you?

its me
rasmussen

“Rasmussen? “

yes allen
im here

In one long, drawn out breath, Allen muttered “what?” The screen flipping back and forth from a word processor displaying Erotic Demons to pure black with white lettering in the middle was enough to drive a man mad. The screen would flip just long enough for Allen to read the messages and then flip back again to its normal state.

how many times do i have to say it allen

“What? I … don’t understand.”

allen
listen

Allen began looking around the room, only to find no one was there. He got up, went to the door – SCREEEEEEEEE! He threw his hands up over his ears and bolted back to the roll-top desk. The piercing sound stopped just as fast as it had begun.

sarah

“Sarah?”

sarah
shes not who you think she is allen

Not who I think she is?

no
shes no good allen

No good?

no
she has to go allen
sarah sells your ideas to rogers

Ideas? Rogers? Michael Rogers?

yes allen
sarah sells your ideas to rogers
and he profits from them

Profits?

where do you think she
got the ten grand she blew in vegas
with her girlfriends

Allen’s mind was blank. He stood in front of the roll-top desk, unable to move.

allen

“Yes?” he replied. His voice sounded monotone, almost robotic, as if he were in a trance.

sarah has to go

“Go where?”

away

“Away?”

yes allen
away

The room was so quiet one could hear the wheels turning in Allen’s head, working toward a solution that was not his own. “Away.”

go allen
send her away

Allen picked up the heavy hand-carved marble ashtray – he bought it for two dollars from an old man in Grand Cayman; the guy carved it right in front of him – the cigarette and little snakes of ashes toppling out onto the floor as he turned it sideways in his palm. The camel burned his finger, but in his trance-like state, he did not notice. He stopped briefly in the doorway, turned his head to the left, and a brief moment later his body followed, and made his way down the hallway to the bedroom.

now we
can finish the story

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