Hollow writings

I wrote this as an assignment a while back, mainly as an experiment to see how far I could push the idea of "Changing perspectives" into the mind of a single person, with no other characters involved at all.

I'm looking to improve it somewhat, get it ready for a short story competition, but have hit a mental block - any comments on this?

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Tick…

Tick…

Tick…

Quills, ivory tips gleaming like swords in the morning light lie rank and file against the polished mahogany of my master's desk. An inkwell sits in one corner, a squat ink-stained square proclaiming the triumph of function over form. A legion of clocks tick in unison, marching along the dusty path of history, their short steps chipping away at the journey ahead. An ancient tome lies open before me, pages tattered and torn, its spine peeling like the bark of an oak tree. Beneath it, sheaves of paper lie in ordered columns, awaiting the attentions of my quills and careful transcription of the writings before me.

Meticulously I grasp the third quill from the left; used for titling, a 1.25cm long tip. Two seconds dipped in the ink, three seconds held immobile to remove any drops, a fourth second for security. I am no printing press, no second rate charlatan to defile my writings with smudges and smears, blots or blemishes. The long, slow stroke of a T, the practiced flick of an h and quaint curl of an e flow out of my fingers, hundreds of miniature works of art replicated against a vast canvas of words.

Tick-k…

The asynchronous beat suddenly echoes throughout the room, jarring within my head. The clocks gaze at me owlishly, hands spread wide like wings. A façade of respectability. Behind these masks of brass a traitor lies, a discordant murmur of rebellion in this sanctuary of gleaming bronze, polished wood and improbably steady candles keeping the darkness at bay. Suddenly, without warning, wind bursts out from behind the floorboards, spitefully swiping at the candles before slinking back into hiding, leaving mad shadows to dance on the walls where candles had bowed to the winds fury.

Distraction. On my quill an ink drop forms, pauses and dives into the sea of words below. Hurtling downwards, the silent shadow-clad comet explodes, forcing a black tidal wave of ink to roar across my parchment, engulfing the ordered lines of my labour. I look down. Momentarily, relief caresses my heart before I see it. Abomination. Filth. Desecration. Inkblot. I loom over my ruined work in the half light, framed by the erratic lightning blots of shadow that flittering candles throw across the walls and crumple the defiled paper into a ball. Condemnation by the judge, the jury, the executioner and the creator. God’s wrath on a foul human race, a scribe’s wrath upon their failed writings. A flood to purge the world, a waste bin to throw paper into.

Faltering steps lead shaking hands towards the smoking pillars of molten wax that used to be brightly burning candles. Flint and steel strike together, letting loose a grating scream of protest as sparks fly out erratically, somehow missing the charcoal wick in front of me. Futile exercise. I wheel around, storm to the chair and slump down, ready to get the titling quill out… again. Dancing shadows leer at me from the blank parchment, cavorting madly to the deranged music of clocks ticking out of sync.

My clenched fingers unfold slowly, reaching out for the quills, ready to begin the painstaking process of rewriting an entire page. Trembling fingers clutch at the smooth keratin surface as it slips out of my hand. Weary eyes see it fall ever so slowly, an ink tipped missile descending towards the earth. Slow arms push through air as thick as water, reaching out to interrupt its fall. Too late. Impact. I stand up and push back the coarse wooden chair that I work on. Turn around quickly. Reach out to the door. Twist the doorknob and walk outside, away. Behind me, the clocks still continue their ticking cacophony, a mocking farewell to an evening of hollow work.