Having recently retired and with time on his hands, Clark decided to fulfill his life’s greatest ambition. With a head full of ideas, interesting and compelling characters, and intricate, twisty plot lines, he would write the great American novel.
Clark was old school. It wasn’t that he was a technophobe. He just liked the feel of using a manual typewriter. So he put aside his laptop and took out his old, antique Underwood, slipped a piece of paper on the roller, and started pounding away on the keyboard.
Before he finished the fourth page, though, Clark stopped typing. “Damn arthritis.”
(100 words)
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Jeff Arnold.
“I thought you were gonna call it the ‘Pink Cadillac Diner,’” Dwight said.
“This is remarkable,” Douglas said as he and his wife headed to the small square and fountain in the middle of the city park with their dog. He looked at his watch. “It’s quarter past four,” he said. “This place is usually teeming with people at this time of day.”
“Mr. Kim, what’s happening?” Mrs. Klein asked. “Your shelves are almost empty. Where are all of the exotic fruits and vegetable that usually fill your shelves?”
“I don’t like him. He’s not funny,” Doris said.
