Polka Dot Gaudy

​I've been thinking about the "right words."  If by miracle a person can assemble creative ideas into a story that is presented just so, it'll be an instant success.   Many sparks will fly off the page, magic words, instant notoriety...if only.
 
A number one best seller is the dream of all dreams or is it?  Does life become a pressure cooker after that point?  They say an author is only as good as their last work.  So if one manages such a great accomplishment, what then?  I wonder, do they sit staring at a screen at three in the morning stranded in a world of white nothingness?  Blizzard alert, no streets open, travel is strongly discouraged until the blanket of snow passes, but does it ever?  The cursor blinks its heartless curse. 
 
The white is soiled by a pouring of blood that happens when the key ingredient is soul.  An author hangs everything on the line secured with clothes pins and punctuation.  Bed sheets, pajamas, socks, undergarments, feelings, life experiences...they sway from this way to that, vulnerable to all who pass.  Some readers are gracious, others extremely judgmental who comment with bite on the author's choice of displaying a polka dotted pattern mid winter.  Gaudy.    
 
Writing is a process and all who live for the story have their own way of telling it.  A tall glass of vodka and a box of chocolates or countless days of self deprivation.  Celery sticks and water without any lemon, phone unplugged...no noise what-so-ever, just the keeper of the story and James as he goes door to door knocking in a desperate search for help. 
 
James the poor chap, locked his keys in the car with the engine running and he's late for work.  That is the moment he happens upon the wrong neighbor.  Every block has a "wrong neighbor," he's the man who lurks in his back yard digging at odd hours.  He emits sinister and as James realizes a breath too late, sinister has no regard for the adage to have good neighbors one must be a good neighbor.  Sinister has a name listed in the phone directory, Scute...not Scott, but Scute as most notice the moment he sees anyone watching, he scoots away.  Poof he's gone. 
 
Scute's was the only house with the porch light on at such an early hour.  The only house open to an unexpected intrusion.  The spread of beam from that simple fixture appears as a dim star casting shadows of doubt.  James could have used more light to encourage his way but one star was all that was given.
 
Once the door closes behind James, he realizes that all of his struggles would have been solved long ago if he had managed the right words.   His life, his story, his existence would have ended up in a better light, a best seller garnished with positive reviews. 
 
His sister Erin found his sedan an hour after it had run out of gas.  The hood was warm, the doors were locked with the keys still in the ignition.  James never showed up for the early shift and she was listed as his emergency contact.   At five fifteen her phone rang.  "I'm sorry to bother you at such an early hour but it's James...he never clocked in for his shift and he hasn't called, something must be wrong."
 
I suppose everyone at one point or another ends up as mulch in a garden somewhere.  James and his words was no exception.  If only he had found the right sequence, long ago, at three in the morning when he was telling his story...if only Scutes had scooted far away...but neither did.