The man in the room
There is a room. And inside that room there is a man. Sitting alone, the smoke from his cigarette lingers almost motionless as he stares at the papers on his desk. His writing scattered about, unfinished like the morning cup of coffee. He shuffles through the papers trying to find something worthy to finish but it's all junk. He needs something worthy, something whole. But his mind is as cluttered as his desk. No point of origin he gets frustrated. His actions confuse him, he isn't himself.
He grows frustrated with every repetative day that passes. Nothing completed, the room lay vacant an the stagnant smoke fills his nostrils. He needs a masterpeice. A piece of artistic writing on paper that truly moves his readers in a profound an uncanny way.
Then one day it struck him. He went to the art supply store for paper to cover his wall. Bright white paper wall to wall, floor to ceiling. He set up his tripod in the corner, camera mounted. The noose hung from the rafters. And as the camera clicked away automatically he pushed the chair away while simultainously pulling the trigger of that colt .45 blowing his head all over the wall.
The man in the room. The stagnant smoke. Blood and brains slowly flowed to the floor on that white wall. He hung there while the camera clicked away till the batteries died. He finally got his masterpiece. A work of art that truly moved people. His mind was more at piece on that wall then in his head. Truly a shame though, that in his dissarray he forgot the memory card. No pictures saved. His art will just fade away, never saved. No one even came to investigate the sound. Alone in life an now alone in death. The man in the room who now just rots away.
By Matthew Branton
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