disgustedly at the thing on the kitchen counter. "You," he said. "I'll bet your keys don't even work." He grabbed a sheet of paper. "There." He turned the roller, and surprisingly it fed the paper smoothly. "Well, at least you're not an absolute disaster." He drank more Scotch, lit another cigarette.
His column didn't interest him. No matter how he tried, he couldn't think of any theories about modern fiction. The only thing on his mind was, what would happen in two weeks when Simmons came to get the rent. "It isn't fair. The System's against me."
That inspired him. Yes. He'd write a story. He'd tell the world exactly what he thought about it. He already knew the title. Just four letters. And he typed them:
Scum
.
The keys moved easier than he'd expected. Smoothly. Slickly. But as gratified as Eric felt, he was also puzzled — for the keys typed longer than was necessary.
His lips felt thick. His mind felt sluggish as he leaned down to see what kind of imprint the old ribbon had made. He blinked and leaned much closer. He'd typed
Scum
, but what he read was
Fletcher's Cove
.
Astonishment made him frown. Had he drunk so much he couldn't control his typing? Were his alcohol-awkward fingers hitting keys at random? No, for if he typed at random, he ought to be reading gibberish, and
Fletcher's Cove
, although the words weren't what he'd intended, certainly wasn't gibberish.
My mind, he told himself, it's playing tricks. I think I'm typing one thing, but unconsciously I'm typing something else. The Scotch is confusing me.
To test his theory, Eric concentrated to uncloud his mind and make his fingers more alert. Taking care that he typed what he wanted, he hit several keys. The letters clattered onto the paper, taking the exact amount of time they should have. Something was wrong, though. As he frowned toward the page, he saw that what he'd meant to type
(a story)
had come out as something else
(a novel)
.
Eric gaped. He knew he hadn't written that. Besides, he'd always written stories. He'd never tried — he didn't have the discipline — to write a novel. What the hell was going on? In frustration, he quickly typed,
The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog
.
But this is what he read:
The town of Fletcher's Cove had managed to survive, as it had always managed to survive, the fierce Atlantic winter
.
That awful tingle again. Like ice. This is crazy, he thought. I've never heard of Fletcher's Cove, and that redundant clause, it's horrible. It's decoration, gingerbread.
Appalled, he struck the keys repeatedly, at frenzied random, hoping to read nonsense, praying he hadn't lost his mind.
Instead of nonsense, this is what he saw:
The townsfolk were as rugged as the harsh New England coastline. They had characters of granite, able to withstand the punishments of nature, as if they had learned the techniques of survival from the sturdy rocks along the shore, impervious to tidal onslaughts
.
Eric flinched. He knew he hadn't typed those words. What's more, he never could have
forced
himself to type them. They were terrible. Redundancy was everywhere, and Lord, those strained commercial images. The sentences were hack work, typical of gushy bestsellers.
Anger seized him. He typed frantically, determined to discover what was happening. His writer's block had disappeared. The notion of bestsellers had inspired him to write a column, scorning the outrageous decadence of fiction that was cynically designed to pander to the basest common taste.
But what he read was:
Deep December snows enshrouded Fletcher's Cove. The land lay dormant, frozen. January. February. The townsfolk huddled, imprisoned near the stove and hearth inside their homes. They scanned the too-familiar faces of their forced companions. While the savage wind howled past their bedroom windows, wives and husbands soon grew bored with one another. March came with its early thaw. Then April, and the land became alive again. But as the warm spring
His column didn't interest him. No matter how he tried, he couldn't think of any theories about modern fiction. The only thing on his mind was, what would happen in two weeks when Simmons came to get the rent. "It isn't fair. The System's against me."
That inspired him. Yes. He'd write a story. He'd tell the world exactly what he thought about it. He already knew the title. Just four letters. And he typed them:
Scum
.
The keys moved easier than he'd expected. Smoothly. Slickly. But as gratified as Eric felt, he was also puzzled — for the keys typed longer than was necessary.
His lips felt thick. His mind felt sluggish as he leaned down to see what kind of imprint the old ribbon had made. He blinked and leaned much closer. He'd typed
Scum
, but what he read was
Fletcher's Cove
.
Astonishment made him frown. Had he drunk so much he couldn't control his typing? Were his alcohol-awkward fingers hitting keys at random? No, for if he typed at random, he ought to be reading gibberish, and
Fletcher's Cove
, although the words weren't what he'd intended, certainly wasn't gibberish.
My mind, he told himself, it's playing tricks. I think I'm typing one thing, but unconsciously I'm typing something else. The Scotch is confusing me.
To test his theory, Eric concentrated to uncloud his mind and make his fingers more alert. Taking care that he typed what he wanted, he hit several keys. The letters clattered onto the paper, taking the exact amount of time they should have. Something was wrong, though. As he frowned toward the page, he saw that what he'd meant to type
(a story)
had come out as something else
(a novel)
.
Eric gaped. He knew he hadn't written that. Besides, he'd always written stories. He'd never tried — he didn't have the discipline — to write a novel. What the hell was going on? In frustration, he quickly typed,
The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog
.
But this is what he read:
The town of Fletcher's Cove had managed to survive, as it had always managed to survive, the fierce Atlantic winter
.
That awful tingle again. Like ice. This is crazy, he thought. I've never heard of Fletcher's Cove, and that redundant clause, it's horrible. It's decoration, gingerbread.
Appalled, he struck the keys repeatedly, at frenzied random, hoping to read nonsense, praying he hadn't lost his mind.
Instead of nonsense, this is what he saw:
The townsfolk were as rugged as the harsh New England coastline. They had characters of granite, able to withstand the punishments of nature, as if they had learned the techniques of survival from the sturdy rocks along the shore, impervious to tidal onslaughts
.
Eric flinched. He knew he hadn't typed those words. What's more, he never could have
forced
himself to type them. They were terrible. Redundancy was everywhere, and Lord, those strained commercial images. The sentences were hack work, typical of gushy bestsellers.
Anger seized him. He typed frantically, determined to discover what was happening. His writer's block had disappeared. The notion of bestsellers had inspired him to write a column, scorning the outrageous decadence of fiction that was cynically designed to pander to the basest common taste.
But what he read was:
Deep December snows enshrouded Fletcher's Cove. The land lay dormant, frozen. January. February. The townsfolk huddled, imprisoned near the stove and hearth inside their homes. They scanned the too-familiar faces of their forced companions. While the savage wind howled past their bedroom windows, wives and husbands soon grew bored with one another. March came with its early thaw. Then April, and the land became alive again. But as the warm spring
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