The fucking words were getting more elusive, the sting of the scotch did little to help with their flow. Carl stared at the flashing blue line with rheumy eyes wondering why he was even bothering. The eviction notice was hours from being posted and he’d spurned his last true friend more than a decade ago. Who was he expecting to find the note? Last words. Lost words. Carl marveled at the muteness of his mind after a lifetime of bellicose opinions spewed with little to no encouragement. How to express all that had led to this moment? He certainly needed more than a note. A note was what you left when you were going for a pack of smokes or a carton of milk, not for when you were going going. This would be all that was left when he was gone. Any last words? He needed more than a note’s worth of words. He thought about all the writing advice he’d read and received over the years and it all distilled to one message. Just start. The words will come. Edit them later.
So he started, the flashing blue of the cursor inching back and forth across the screen. His life story.
8 min @ Northwood on 4.29.13
source of inspiration: a bottle at the bar
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