Writing relay by the powerhousecreatives-part 5

Welcome to the writing relay "It is as you make it" written by the members of the Power House Creatives, a story that will take you to places you have seen only in your dreams and a story you too will wish you were a part of. Sit back and relax, our magical journey is about to start...

I’m the next organic to have a bash at the writing relay: “It is as you make it.” Being a member of the Power House Creatives is always an adventure of magical journeys and dreams with the unexpected chucked in for good measure. This is part 5 of the story…

I’m not sure I’ve been feeling quite myself recently. It all feels like a dream that I can’t wake from, as if my senses have been invaded by something that is jumbling them up so that I can hardly even remember my name.

The last six months have been strange so say the least.

Everywhere I look I see disillusion and questions until all I feel is: oh, what is wrong with the world? Why is everyone going blind? Why is everyone looking the other way?

Are we all wired to the same conclusion, that life without money is worthless?

Perhaps we are all machines, or machine-like and living our robotic lives...

Semi-automatically heading towards the bedroom of this like a carton of eggs on the conveyor belt back in the old days when you could chase the Beatles down the road and come home with a smile on your face is really not going to do you much good these days unless you’re happy.

Many of us know this well as we grow older, for many of us are happy. But some of us are otherwise.

And yet, I have to ask: who am I?

In my fevered thinking the name William calls to me, and yet am I really William?

From somewhere I remember 7 males and 7 females forming a circle around me. And as I stood there I began to forget who I was as if an absorbing power was taking away my memories.

All became blue, as if I had some illness I couldn’t compete with. Bits and pieces of memory fell through my mind. One such memory had me clutching a folder, but what was in it I can’t recall.

And then there were clouds, and something about Gina and a contract and kids dancing round as if life depended on it.

The typewriter gathers dust, the last page sticking out of it with the legend writ large: what happened to the last six months of his life…

Anyone looking on might be wondering what I’d got myself into and why all the soul searching. Well, the truth is I’m an alchemist by nature and can’t help but experiment. But my day job is a private detective.

I’d been hired to find a missing writer, and after reading what was last written by him I came to the conclusion that he didn’t want to be found.

Last seen running away, from a meeting to discuss the finished book…

My best guess was: he was hiding out somewhere and finishing his manuscript, perhaps in some dark room with a window that overlooked the city, a single bare light bulb shining down on him, and a bottle of something to keep him company as he typed away.

Jazz, playing softly from out of the night came to him, and an orange moon slowly sailed over the tops of the buildings, surreal, and unseen as he stared into the story he was writing.

As he typed away, a half starved cigarette burned a scar on the end of the table that led to the sofa that he would get to, sometime later when the sun came up and the night ended.

Over in the corner of the room, the wastebasket with many pages of discarded typing, crushed up into balls, littered around it had nothing to say but that it was full; while the threadbare carpet had only old dreams to tell that would never find their way ever again out of the small rented room except to be discarded for something better.

A small electric fire had one bar glowing, barely enough to keep the room from freezing…

But nothing else was needed.

Stopping typing for a moment, he poured himself a drink and became aware of the traffic down below on the street forever passing by, and as he did so the light bulb pinked and went out.

Taking a sip of his drink he turned on the table lamp and went back to work…

Rain suddenly beat against the window and made him look up to watch the moisture sliding down the pane.

Some girl out in the hallway closed her door and tapped away in her high heels to the stairs to get down and out into the night and any bar that would have her.

Another drink, and the typewriter clacked onwards with the story, and the jazz band played blues as the moon carried on across the sky…

My best guess, sure; but it’s not really a guess, for when I look out of the window all I can see are other windows just like mine.

You know, some stories go down rabbit holes and are never seen again in quite the same way, and perhaps come out telling a different story, something that you want to hear; and some go a different direction. Well, this one is growing wings to fly said the grasshopper.

Whoa, is that you grasshopper?

It sure is buddy.

Do you have your superpowers on you?

Yes I do have my superpowers on me. Why do you ask?

Can I borrow them?

Whatever for?

Does it matter?

No dear; no it doesn’t matter.

Then can I borrow them then?

I will lend you one superpower, until the end of your life, and then you must give it back to me.

That seems fair.

Okay then, stand back.

Err, before I do stand back, what kind of superpower is it?

It’s the kind that makes your toes curl.

Not sure I was thinking that was a superpower.

Oh believe me, it’s the best kind.

An hour later the typewriter stopped typing. The man got up from his chair and put his hat on, opened the door, and then went to look for a bar that would have him.

Oh, and his toes were tingling.

Several bars later on in the night he found her up alone at the end of where she was and looking down at her drink.

He went to the bar and stood decently close to her and gave his expectancy a rub and looked at the barman with a passion that the barman recognised.

I want a boozy drink said the man.

Is that all you want asked the barman?

Are you a joker? Bring me my drink growled the man as he sat on the bar stool.

The barman gave him his drink and then went up to the other end of the bar and rubbed his glasses cleaner than clean.

Pssst said the woman, half looking at him, and glowing.

Hello, said the man looking over at her; we finally meet.

Give me a cigarette she said, and moved her foot.

We can’t smoke in here, we’ll get thrown out.

Of course we will.

Maybe I was thinking of joining rabbit holes anonymous or something. Or maybe my mind was going free, but you know, just lately, I’ve been thinking: it is as you make it.

To be continued...

On another time line on planet Earth, @joeylim is choosen to write the next episode of: It is as you make it…
Good luck.

Part one https://steemit.com/powerhousecreatives/@zen-art/it-is-as-you-make-it-writing-relay-by-the-powerhousecreatives

Part two https://steemit.com/powerhousecreatives/@ireenchew/writing-relay-by-the-powerhousecreatives-part-2

Part three https://steemit.com/powerhousecreatives/@manoldonchev/writing-relay-by-the-powerhousecreatives-part-3

Part four https://steemit.com/powerhousecreatives/@tryskele/writing-relay-by-the-powerhousecreatives-part-4