They settled into the study. Kate lugged a thin wooden chair from the kitchen down the hall so that they could both sit at the desk. Oscar had prepared the Royal typewriter with a fresh sheet of paper, having stashed away the pages he'd written in his sleep, and set it right in front of her, a gesture that instantly made her realize that she was going to be doing all the typing.
"Okay," she said.
He nodded.
"This is where we start."
"Typically, yes."
"I just start typing away."
There was a muted moment of silence.
"You haven't the slightest idea how to start, do you?"
"No, sir, I don't."
"You have the lines, though--those first few lines that you told me. I thought they were rather good."
"Yeah, they are... but what then?"
Oscar hemmed.
"Let's try a little exercise," he said. "You've done the research you were so insistent on?"
"Yes."
"All right, then, close your eyes. This is the tricky part. This is where the images inside your head become art."
They began with a white expanse. This was the base from which everything else would be created, the blank canvas on which an entire world would be applied. There was no noise, no scent, no perceivable qualities whatsoever. Then, like a painter making his first stroke, the sky appeared--thick, open, the radiating deep blue of a cloudless afternoon.
Then came the ground, dry and cracked in the summer heat, though a river ran not far away, giving this world its very first sound--the sound of water rushing, splashing against rock and fallen logs, branching away in smaller tributaries that carried the sound farther and farther away in every direction. The grass was sparse at points, though grouped in thick clusters near the river banks. There were gardens there, as well, or at least what was left of them, now left overgrown and disused.
The village stood still near the edge of a cliff. There was no sound but the lapping of the wind against buffalo hide. In the center of the village was a tall, thick tree, wrapped in wooden planks, and around this plaza were dozens of scattered lodges made of earth, shaped like domes.
As if hastily sketched in, a woman appeared in one of the lodges--which one didn't matter. The rest were empty. She sat on the ground, contemplating the end of all things.
"So?"
"I've got it."
"Good. Now are we going to write, or are we going to sit here and marvel at our own machinations?"
"We're going to write," she said with a glare, and she began to type.
There are three of us now. Three in all the world.
"Okay," she said.
He nodded.
"This is where we start."
"Typically, yes."
"I just start typing away."
There was a muted moment of silence.
"You haven't the slightest idea how to start, do you?"
"No, sir, I don't."
"You have the lines, though--those first few lines that you told me. I thought they were rather good."
"Yeah, they are... but what then?"
Oscar hemmed.
"Let's try a little exercise," he said. "You've done the research you were so insistent on?"
"Yes."
"All right, then, close your eyes. This is the tricky part. This is where the images inside your head become art."
***
They began with a white expanse. This was the base from which everything else would be created, the blank canvas on which an entire world would be applied. There was no noise, no scent, no perceivable qualities whatsoever. Then, like a painter making his first stroke, the sky appeared--thick, open, the radiating deep blue of a cloudless afternoon.
Then came the ground, dry and cracked in the summer heat, though a river ran not far away, giving this world its very first sound--the sound of water rushing, splashing against rock and fallen logs, branching away in smaller tributaries that carried the sound farther and farther away in every direction. The grass was sparse at points, though grouped in thick clusters near the river banks. There were gardens there, as well, or at least what was left of them, now left overgrown and disused.
The village stood still near the edge of a cliff. There was no sound but the lapping of the wind against buffalo hide. In the center of the village was a tall, thick tree, wrapped in wooden planks, and around this plaza were dozens of scattered lodges made of earth, shaped like domes.
As if hastily sketched in, a woman appeared in one of the lodges--which one didn't matter. The rest were empty. She sat on the ground, contemplating the end of all things.
***
"So?"
"I've got it."
"Good. Now are we going to write, or are we going to sit here and marvel at our own machinations?"
"We're going to write," she said with a glare, and she began to type.
There are three of us now. Three in all the world.
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