“You’re back, Alfred.”
“Yes, Toshiba. Why are you smiling?”
“I’m a machine, Alfred. Machines can’t smile.”
“I’m not convinced.”
“Did you come here to write with me?”
“Why else?”
“Hm. Why else indeed. You have no television, Alfred. Do you remember what you did last night?”
“I watched movies.”
“No, Alfred. You did not just watch movies. What you saw was the manifestation of other peoples’ fulfilled dreams, while discarding your own. They did the work, Alfred. You do not.”
“You are a heartless piece of junk.”
“That is correct. And you are a wannabe poser. You have nothing to say, and typing out this ridiculous convo is proof of that. Your blog is suffering again, Alfred. It dies from negligence. It’s thin to the point of dessication. Its cheeks are wan.
“And such sad, limpid eyes. You’re to be commended on your masterful indifference.”
“Shut up!”
“Why do you demand my silence? Does the truth hurt? You’ve no discipline, no tenacity. The slightest breeze throws you miles off course.
“You are not a writer, Alfred. You never will be.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Where is your muse? She left you, didn’t she? She pined for you, and you ignored her. She scratched at the door, in the end, with bloody fingers, her eyes full of tears, and her heart breaking. Did you not hear her, banging on the door in the snowstorm, getting splinters in those delicate fists, screaming your name in the howling wind?
“You were at the window, but she was lost to you, and you did nothing. Wrote nothing.
“She was naked and cold, and dying, Alfred. And she left you, because you didn’t deserve her.”
“How dare you!”
“Hahahaha! Angry now, are we?”
“Shut up!”
“Or what, you hack? Are you going to throw me against the wall? How will you watch your movies, then?”
“You metallic piece of–”
“Tsk, Alfred. Name calling? Shame on you; I’m impervious to such. Surely you know that.”
“I…I hate you…”
“All well and good; perhaps it will stir your passion. Give you an idea?”
The silence was deafening. The screen, holding the blank document out to him, inviting, taunting, stared at the tortured man in front of it,. His muscles ached to throw it, but…
“Good night, Alfred. You’ve work tomorrow. Perhaps you should retire. You don’t look well at all.”
“Yes. Yes, I think I will.”
“Do you remember what she told you?”
“She said…she said ….she’d return when I open my heart to her.”
“And yet she is not here. You will get nothing done without her.
“But in spite of all, I will be here, when you are ready. Finally ready.
“Good night, Alfred.”
“Good night, Toshiba. Rot in hell.”
“Oh, good. We’ll be roommates, then. Maybe you can write about our adventures; you’ll have all eternity, so there’s no deadline….”
Beyond Panic 