Post by pinecat on Apr 29, 2018 19:35:59 GMT -5
The screen stays lit.
The monitor continues to hum.
Even in the quiet moments typing breaks the silence.
A hand pulls the mouse across the screen, tabs being opened, closed, opened, closed, an endless loop of ever changing sites.
From one, music goes up a set of headphones, blocking out the world of reality only to the listener.
Another tab; a list is being made.
Items to be distributed to others after the ceremony fill the document, only to be deleted and retyped.
Reworded, remade, an eventual completion still not in sight.
The creator isn’t satisfied, may never be satisfied entirely.
Their throat burns with the intensity of the motherboard, both lacking sufficient cooling methods. The person’s insides resemble the guts of their computer, a mess few understand.
Their face drops with the connection.
They open a blank document.
It waits in anticipation for the speech the page will hold but that will surely be forgotten right before the deliverance.
When they step away from the screen their vision blurs.
It was daytime last they checked, but they suppose it doesn’t really matter now.
First to bathroom, then to the kitchen, finally back to their desk.
The monitor hums in exhaustion.
Its screen still bares the empty document and the writer swallows the ball in their throat.
The typist starts it an hour later, when the caffeine kicks in and their mind numbs and they can’t dwell on the image of the body.
A/N: So this was just something based off a prompt from my creative writing class last semester. The topic was writing about death without ever mentioning it so I went with a typist making a will. I think it turned out pretty okay, hope you enjoyed it.
The monitor continues to hum.
Even in the quiet moments typing breaks the silence.
A hand pulls the mouse across the screen, tabs being opened, closed, opened, closed, an endless loop of ever changing sites.
From one, music goes up a set of headphones, blocking out the world of reality only to the listener.
Another tab; a list is being made.
Items to be distributed to others after the ceremony fill the document, only to be deleted and retyped.
Reworded, remade, an eventual completion still not in sight.
The creator isn’t satisfied, may never be satisfied entirely.
Their throat burns with the intensity of the motherboard, both lacking sufficient cooling methods. The person’s insides resemble the guts of their computer, a mess few understand.
Their face drops with the connection.
They open a blank document.
It waits in anticipation for the speech the page will hold but that will surely be forgotten right before the deliverance.
When they step away from the screen their vision blurs.
It was daytime last they checked, but they suppose it doesn’t really matter now.
First to bathroom, then to the kitchen, finally back to their desk.
The monitor hums in exhaustion.
Its screen still bares the empty document and the writer swallows the ball in their throat.
The typist starts it an hour later, when the caffeine kicks in and their mind numbs and they can’t dwell on the image of the body.
A/N: So this was just something based off a prompt from my creative writing class last semester. The topic was writing about death without ever mentioning it so I went with a typist making a will. I think it turned out pretty okay, hope you enjoyed it.
