the smoke slithered around the broken pull chain, convulsing in the flickering glow of the bulb's last breaths. at some point, it'd need to go, just like the half-eaten carton of general tso's and someone who occupied a little too much space on the bed. probably the beard, too, or what could pass for one with squinted eyes and a poor grasp of english.
the typewriter was meant to be a joke. "oh, you're a writer," they'd said, "we found this at the sally army down the block." why they didn't use it to bludgeon some trust fund kid, get some proper use out of it, remained a mystery. he missed the days of whiskey-fueled gifts of even more whiskey, some cigs and well-earned solitude.
granted, most of those were to himself.
but there it was, contemplating suicide by hanging-off of the sawed-off bookcase, its busted platen that wouldn't stay in place for eleven goddamn seconds (he counted) a single extended finger suspended in the air. he looked at the next shelf up, leaving the machine to contemplate its own self-worth. rings of what might once have been optimistically called "coffee" stained what paper was around, buried beneath a crumpled-up shirt and something that could've been edible once.
the bulb flashed above, making the sound that rabbits do, the strain of it all too much for it to take.
a hand sauntered over tangles of greasy hair, as the grunting choke of a sigh stumbled into the air, smacking slack lips on its way out the door. hoisting the chunk of metal onto a bare lap, he clumsy staggered through the motions, hungover fingers, not eagerly anticipating all the head-pounding to come, spooling the driest piece of paper with all the gravitas of a man about to face the firing squad.
something stirred behind him. it occurred to him that it might not have been human, given the farms nearby.
good line, he thought, popping into existence unbidden by any sort of muse worth looking at for too long, or in too bright of a light.
too bad it still needed a new ribbon.
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