Untitled Document
A very short story
Over browser tabs his mouse hovers, three tabs to the right—click—he settles on his cloud drive. He scrolls through drafts and completed works alike, scanning each with care as though one might still have something to offer.
He dillies, he dallies, but eventually the page scrolls no further.
He right clicks on a dark alley between two documents and a menu unfolds. The cursor turns into a pointer as his wrist slopes downwards.
Click.
A new tab opens: Untitled document. He stares blankly into the blinding white screen as the cursor blinks continuously, as if to say: Well, what now?
Eyes locked on the screen, back straight and motionless; Palms splayed on keys, fingers up and hovering.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
He hears the cursor now, but its timbre slowly morphs into something else.
Blink. Blik. Tik…
Tik. Tok.
It was as though the clock was mocking her, -20 degrees and yet sweat trickled down the side of her face. Her underarm uncomfortably moist and her fingers stiff as she rapidly worked her phone. It was the fifth Uber that had canceled on her.
It had snowed the day before, and so the city was covered in heaps of white with very little light and the winds wouldn’t let up. The city usually peaked with noise at this hour, but now it almost felt ghostly. The sounds of sirens, car horns and the distant shouts of road rage, were now replaced by the whistling sounds of wind. She pressed forward on foot—eyes squinted, fists balled, and forehead threatening to split in two from the cold—hoping against all odds to catch the one-one-four.
Why now? Why her? These and other thoughts stirred in her mind as mounds of snow crushed beneath her feet. She almost ran into a man walking east, only swaying at the very last minute, contorting her body awkwardly so she was only on her right foot as their coats barely grazed each other. Eventually she regained her balance and pressed forward.
At the bus shelter her shoulders relaxed a bit. There was no heat, but the glass frame shielded her from the harsh wind and the relentless snow. Her mind raced as her feet paced, but all she could do was wait.
Motionless his fingers are again, as the cursor continues to taunt him.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
Random Notes:
A few weeks ago I stumbled onto a podcast that goes into the lore of Fela—Fela Kuti: Fear No Man. It’s definitely worth a listen.
And because the universe can be persuasive a-times, I came across a really cool graphic novel that compliments this perfectly—FELA: MUSIC IS THE WEAPON.
Started like a dababy verse. Straight to it.
Nice read. It paints a very vivid picture