The Writer

by Thom Young

The extra large stained tee shirt hung on his gut. It was too small. His shirt and not his gut. It hung on the stretchy boxer shorts, that came with a drawstring. The bags of Zapps jalapeno chips lay strewn on the floor, along with copious amounts of Rolling Rock beer bottles. Their green hue capturing what little sunlight darted through the torn shades. The ashtray sat to his right. It was filled with smoked American Spirit cigarettes, most still good for another light later on. His writing table was nothing more than the cheap folding variety, bought at the local Office Depot.

Last summer, he finally replaced his computer. The old one was infested with trojans and blaster worms, no doubt from too much porn viewing and years of abuse. This was the environment of the important writer. He needed silence and time for ideas. The creative act being too important for needling neighbors and barking dogs. It was always the dogs. Nasty little pests. Mexican pests at that. The children were far worse however, they took away from his art. The little running shits. They yelled all day. They never shut up. How could he get the words down?


The chair was one from his old classroom. It was a blue plastic industrial chair. His ass hung off the sides of it, looking for extra room. It wasn’t comfortable. Fuck comfort. Comfort was for the safe writers. A little discomfort led to better stories and poems, at least in his mind. His girlfriend came in on the weekends.


She kept him going with intermittent blow jobs. It kept the words coming. She had big breasts. Her fiery red hair smelled like Pantene and cum.

“How’s the story?”

“Not now baby. I’m busy.”

“Okay.”

She was good to him. More than he deserved. All writers were assholes. All people were assholes. Even the son of god. He had bad days too.


The writer set his cigar down. He wasn’t pleased with what he typed. “Get me a beer!” She came running with a fresh bottle. I guess some things were still alright. It wasn't easy being an artist.

Thom Young is a writer from Texas. His work has appeared in 3am magazine, Word Riot, Thieves Jargon, and many other sundry places. He is proud that he got out of bed yesterday.