Fix it!

wolfewriter:

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“Hey”, I said. “Time to wake up and fix the story line.”

Shelton groaned as he began to open his eyes to the bright, snow reflected light, pushing it’s way annoyingly into the bedroom. “Sleep,” he muttered.

“No,” I replied more insistently. “It’s time to get up and fix the story line. You butchered it yesterday by adding all that other stuff. You can’t leave it like that.”

He groaned again.

“UP!” I insisted.

“Fine!” He replied, annoyed enough by my prodding for a small surge of anger to boot him into the seated position.

He looked around with squinted eyes and then leaned forward, shakily, toward curtain overlooking the lower field. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Don’t get distracted,” I said. “You have words to write.”

He began putting on his clothes; heavy wool socks, long under wear for skiing, a long sleeve shirt with a high collar, pressed tightly against his throat.

“You don’t need all that to write,” I gibed.

“I have to clear the driveway,” he muttered.

I shook my head. He was avoiding…and I knew why. The timing on the new story was all off and he knew I wasn’t happy about it.

“I heard that,” he said.

“Heard what?” I asked.

“Stop doing narration for my morning,” he replied crossly.

I chuckled.

“It’s not funny,” he said, his agitation rising.

He rubbed his eyes and padded out of the bedroom after kissing Diane on the cheek, but leaving her slumbering, wrapped in the heavy blanket. As he made his way downstairs, he turned his head to the side, listening for me to follow.

“Stop it,” he said again. “I’ll get to you. I have to clear the driveway first.”

I chuckled again.

He got to the door and reached for his coat when he froze, staring into nothing, his eyes and his hand frozen as something stole his concentration.

“Got it?” I asked.

“Shhh,” was his only reply.

He abruptly rehung his coat and then hurried into the study where he turned on his computer.

“Hurry,” he muttered.

I was about to comment, but I was afraid I would shake the delicate thought he seemed to be nursing, so I kept quiet.

“I can hear you when you do that,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

“The narration.”

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be when I get tired of you and kill you off,” he said with a sneer.

“You wouldn’t do that,” I replied confidently. “You like me too much.”

“Ha!” He blurted. “Only when you cooperate.”

“Hey,” I said indignantly. “You made me what I am. If you don’t like it, do something about it.”

“Pfft.”

“Your computer is started,” I said, drawing his attention to the password screen.

His hands hovered over the keyboard after starting Scrivener.  The tension in me was building to an almost unbearable level when he finally dropped his fingers down and began typing.

After a few moments he stopped and breathed deeply before getting up and walking away. I leaned over and looked at what he had just written:

Scott Wolfe was captured by Darth Vader and entombed in carbonite for all eternity. Only the kiss of a handsome prince would wake him from his coma.

“Get back here and fix this!” I yelled after him.

He laughed as he opened the door. “You can’t talk!” He gibed a little too happily for my taste. “You’re frozen in carbonite.”

I shook my head. “Alright,” I said in defeat. “After the driveway is clear.”

I heard the door close.

Jesus, I thought. Why did I have to end up in his head?

“I hear you!” Shelton yelled from outside. Quite a feat considering the tractor was running.

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