This was a tough voting choice. I don't know if I can do better, because both stories were solid entries, but I'm going to try with the entry below. I didn't do word count so please let me know if I went over to edit and repost:
Jimmy Rachman stared at the Olivetti Lettera 32 like it owed him money. Jimmy's state of mind couldn't catch humor anymore, but he did felt he was owed words. For 25 years he had held off on writing to be a sensible career man, husband and father.
But career had reached a plateau, and the hidden resentment he externalized as verbal and emotional abuse at his daughter and wife had driven them away, so his time was all his again.
But the words wouldn't come. Ideas swam at the edges of his mind, moth-like things that fluttered around, but retreated when they came into contact with the red core of anger and resentment guiding Jimmy's decisions.
Jimmy stabbed at the black U key of the typewriter with his index finger. The force of the jab caused jimmy to miss the key, and the edge of the key made a tiny crescent cut on the left side of Jimmy's finger
Jimmy pulled back in pain and surprise, and after seeing the blood on his finger, look at the typewriter with a snarl, and struck the Y key with his other finger, also cutting his left index.
As though given a personal challenge, Jimmy struck different keys with mounting fury and different fingers, and each jab brought new cuts. Jimmy's blood was dripping carmine over the turquoise surface of the Olivetti.
Jimmy kept typing, growing weaker, but determined to write something or die trying.
Oh gentlemen, I must warn you. I am no lady in the ring!
Mundane Object
His bathrobe neatly tied, hair washed (what was left of it), Harold sat in his usual spot in the dining room and awaited his breakfast. Scrolling on his phone, he lost track of a few minutes and noticed The Sheila was late with his breakfast. He expected her to be punctual. He liked his coffee fresh and hot. Sniffing the air, he could smell coffee, but also something else cooking. The Sheila must have gotten up extra early this morning.
Harold and Sheila have been married for 46 years, 8 months, and 12 days. Sheila kept track in her journal, the one Harold never knew existed. For 46 years, 8 months, and 5 days (they’d taken a week-long honeymoon), Sheila made Harold’s breakfast. And prepared his lunch to take to work. And made his dinner. Now that he was retired, Harold requested his meals at set times. The TV was never to be turned on before 7:00 pm. After dinner. No matter the world events.
Harold called her The Sheila because she was like a loyal assistant, to be counted on, day in and day out. Sheila hated being called The Sheila.
She promised herself that today would be different.
Sheila brought Harold his coffee and toast with jam at 8:45. Ten minutes late.
Harold didn’t feel well when Sheila brought lunch. But he ate it anyway. Around 1:30 pm he noticed he hadn’t seen the dog all day.
Dinner was served at 5:30. A small roast. Tasty, but quite a few small bones. He asked Sheila if she’d seen the cat today. Sheila shrugged.
At 6:15, Harold died of food poisoning. Sheila, no longer having any responsibilities, left the house at 7:00 pm to catch her flight to Rio.
I love it!
Make sure you vote for yourself :)
Please vote. No hard feelings. Just what you want to see in the future.
This was a tough voting choice. I don't know if I can do better, because both stories were solid entries, but I'm going to try with the entry below. I didn't do word count so please let me know if I went over to edit and repost:
Jimmy Rachman stared at the Olivetti Lettera 32 like it owed him money. Jimmy's state of mind couldn't catch humor anymore, but he did felt he was owed words. For 25 years he had held off on writing to be a sensible career man, husband and father.
But career had reached a plateau, and the hidden resentment he externalized as verbal and emotional abuse at his daughter and wife had driven them away, so his time was all his again.
But the words wouldn't come. Ideas swam at the edges of his mind, moth-like things that fluttered around, but retreated when they came into contact with the red core of anger and resentment guiding Jimmy's decisions.
Jimmy stabbed at the black U key of the typewriter with his index finger. The force of the jab caused jimmy to miss the key, and the edge of the key made a tiny crescent cut on the left side of Jimmy's finger
Jimmy pulled back in pain and surprise, and after seeing the blood on his finger, look at the typewriter with a snarl, and struck the Y key with his other finger, also cutting his left index.
As though given a personal challenge, Jimmy struck different keys with mounting fury and different fingers, and each jab brought new cuts. Jimmy's blood was dripping carmine over the turquoise surface of the Olivetti.
Jimmy kept typing, growing weaker, but determined to write something or die trying.
Thanks, once another author steps up I’ll publish this in the next round.
Sounds good. Thank you!
Oh gentlemen, I must warn you. I am no lady in the ring!
Mundane Object
His bathrobe neatly tied, hair washed (what was left of it), Harold sat in his usual spot in the dining room and awaited his breakfast. Scrolling on his phone, he lost track of a few minutes and noticed The Sheila was late with his breakfast. He expected her to be punctual. He liked his coffee fresh and hot. Sniffing the air, he could smell coffee, but also something else cooking. The Sheila must have gotten up extra early this morning.
Harold and Sheila have been married for 46 years, 8 months, and 12 days. Sheila kept track in her journal, the one Harold never knew existed. For 46 years, 8 months, and 5 days (they’d taken a week-long honeymoon), Sheila made Harold’s breakfast. And prepared his lunch to take to work. And made his dinner. Now that he was retired, Harold requested his meals at set times. The TV was never to be turned on before 7:00 pm. After dinner. No matter the world events.
Harold called her The Sheila because she was like a loyal assistant, to be counted on, day in and day out. Sheila hated being called The Sheila.
She promised herself that today would be different.
Sheila brought Harold his coffee and toast with jam at 8:45. Ten minutes late.
Harold didn’t feel well when Sheila brought lunch. But he ate it anyway. Around 1:30 pm he noticed he hadn’t seen the dog all day.
Dinner was served at 5:30. A small roast. Tasty, but quite a few small bones. He asked Sheila if she’d seen the cat today. Sheila shrugged.
At 6:15, Harold died of food poisoning. Sheila, no longer having any responsibilities, left the house at 7:00 pm to catch her flight to Rio.
loved it
Great effort from each writer...I'm torn, loved them both :)
Thanks, try and write your own. Drop it here.
I thought both were pretty good, but alas, we get but one vote.