ghost writer

He was totally blocked, staring at the next blank sheet, same to same, book deal money already blown on three wives and a pink waitress. Crumpled paper strewn about resembling giant radioactive dust balls bore indecipherable sentences of black letters hammered with weighted fingers like mallets at a carnival strongman game with bell ringing not as a winner, but signaling each lousy break.

He stepped outside for fresh air, catching instead the drift of burning leaves tended over the blue hills from Willow Manor, reminding him of his childhood burrowing, his gaunt magpie-beaked grandfather raking the fallen October colors into mounds, and down on all fours he remembered the cushioned tumble, springing up laughing, and seeing the old man, not too bright, using gasoline to fuel the flame two piles over, the flame following the trail back to the gas can, exploding in the old man's hands, the old guy rolling in agony setting fire to the next mound of leaves. Helpless, the boy screamed in silence with time stopped like a famous painting. So much for a whiff of fresh air.

He stood behind the chair and blinked twice, his widened disbelieving red eyes focused on the fingerless typing. The typing was steady, no hesitation, the keys pounding away like the old news wire service teletype on pale yellow paper in his AM radio gig years coldly stating that Bobby was dead way out in California.

He leaned closer, put on his glasses and read outloud to the cat, 'Why my little grandchild did you just stand there why did you not help you could have thrown me into the well to put me out why why why you see my hands are still good you fool!'