Erma

Erma sat there in the small room stifled by the strong pungent odor of cigarettes and garbage of weeks gone by. Her eyes sunken and black were like holes left from a bomb. Her face drawn, with her skin sallow and lifeless she flung papers one after another through the stale air.

Words echoing through her mind so fast she could hardly get them down on paper as she flung a new batch to the already covered floor. What is wrong she asked herself, over and over I have done this and still I am at the beginning once again. Where is the beginning and why can’t I write my words to fit the ending which I so clearly see.

“Damn writing, to hell with it,” she said standing up and tripping on the pile at her feet. Kicking them she flew into a rage and sat back down. “Damn you I will finish this and no you are not going to stop me, do you hear me” she screamed into the smoked filled air.

The words had come so easily in the beginning, in her dream she knew every one of them, she saw where it would take her and she knew a best seller would soon hit the markets. She would be overcome with accolades from all the important people of the publishing world demanding another great work from her.
Throwing her head down on the pile of unfinished papers she sobbed. Who was she kidding, herself? Reaching for another cigarette, realizing the pack was again empty, she fumbled looking, almost ranting as she realized there was no more.

“Well hell,” she said as she strode through the door slamming it. The short walk to the corner Handy Mart seemed to give her a sense of freedom as she told the man to give her four cartoons of cigarettes and a fifth of their cheapest whiskey. Paying the man she left, to return to her rancid room. “This time by damn I will find the words and I will write my best story ever,” she muttered as she reached for the door, flinging the package down and finding a dirty glass pouring herself a glass full. Ripping the cigarette from the pack she lit it and sat down by her desk. Savoring the whiskey and the long drag from the cigarette, “this time, this time” she said.

Her eyes seemed to suddenely come to life and her heart skipped a few beats. Taking another long slug from her glass and a long drag from her cigarette, she grabbed her pen and began to write. The words were blurred and she became more intense and fierce as her hand moved across the paper.

With sirens blaring, the police came. The stench from the room had alarmed her neighbors and they had made the call. “Every one stand back,” the policeman said as he kicked the door open. Covering his nostrils and moving forward he saw her slumped on the desk, the bottle knocked over, cigarettes lay burnt all over the desk. The medical examiner came inside now and looking about he said “doesn’t look like foul play here," as he moved her body. His eyes went to the piles of papers, “my lord son look at this” he said. The pen had fallen from her hands and her scrawled words read, “I finally made the headlines.”