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Writing Sample from theProse

  Writing Sample from the Prose The following was written for a writing challenge on theprose.com. The prompt was as follows: Grey Wall  Check out the original over at  Grey Wall . Grey Wall Towering over everything was the Grey Wall. For a thousand generations the Grey Wall had separated the worlds, looming above each in silent threat of what lay on the other side. Looming in the heart of the unchosen. No being had every crossed the Wall. No human would try for the abject terror it brought the imagination. Even the birds, circling and wheeling about the azure sky would not cross the line of demarcation. The Wall meant safety and the Wall meant death. Zenyassa did not care for safety and she did not fear death. She was Unchosen. What did it matter? What was life without the risk of losing it? She could not feel alive sitting before a thatch hut milling grain while the men of her village hunted wild yissana beasts. Their hunt brought them adventures and risk for the great ...
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Original Writing: Times at the Typewriter

Times at the Typewriter

    I eased myself down into the cool worn leather of my writing chair, comforted by the familiar creek of cow hide. Before me was my Smith Corona, my real master in this life. My best friend and worst enemy wrapped up in a bundle of springs, plastic, and steel. Every day she calls to me, beckoning anytime I am within sight of her. My guilt grows into anxiety when I don't spend enough time with her.
    
    My anxiety keeps me away. I am a coward for my own judgement.

    As I stare at my ineptitude of mortality, I snatch up the familiar crystal whiskey glass and drizzle into it some of Kentucky's finest. The amber warmth bolsters me, cuts my inhibitions, and allows me to be brave. Some chaps let the demon drink drive them to mad acts of bravado so that they might prove themselves to be men. Not me. My liquid courage is the pathway to confronting my own fears. Fears of failure and judgement.

    I take a swig and let the strength percolate through my earthly body. Another. And another. I fill it again.

    My head is swimming ever so slightly and ideas are pushing through the fog of inhibition and breaking through the distraction of everyday mundanity. I stop thinking and start writing. Fingers to keys. Clack, clack, clack, Ka-ching! The typewriter fires away, each stroke flawless as the keys slam stygian ink to ivory page.

    Finally, I confront my demons and banish them to the darkness from whence they came. I feel strong. I feel creative. Motivated. I can do this.
    
    Another glass down. Another page written.

    Fog coalesces again at the edges of my mental periphery. The drink, the damn demon drink! So strong and eye opening at first before it comes to claim the soul you promised it so that you can be free of earthly restraints.

    There is always a caveat. Alcohol in moderation. Writing in moderation of alcohol.

Words no longer spring to mind at the blink of an eye. The keys stop their rhythmic clacking as more and more time is devoted to thinking of a word. Where the hell am I going with this?

    All good things must end. I must quit while I am ahead and before I have a date with the porcelain lady. Already I know my headache is inevitable, that my day at work will be miserable. I find solace in the fact that I wrote a couple pages, made true progress.

    I will be ready to do it all again tomorrow.

For more on typewriters, check out my other blog post Writing with Typewriters
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