Writer

Tick

The room was quiet, oppressive. The sound of her own breathing filled her ears.

Tock

She stared at the ceiling. There was a small, black mark in the corner. Her heart skipped a beat, as the thought crossed her mind that it might be spider. A closer look revealed a small roach. She briefly considered getting up to squash it, but figured it would take off before she got near enough, so she left it alone.

Tick

The sound of a lawnmower drifted through the open window. Glancing outside, it occurred to her that she really ought to do something about the knee-high weeds that graced her own yard.

Tock

Staring at a dandelion, she noticed a lone ant struggling up the stem. She wondered what happened to all his little ant friends. Was he the lone survivor of a destroyed nest? Was he an aberrant, an outcast? Or was he an intrepid explorer, boldly going where no ant has gone before?

Tick

Distracted by a burst of movement in her peripheral vision, she allowed her eyes to roam. Her gaze landed on a small, black wasp. Watching as it built an intricate nest on the windowsill, she sighed. Another chore to add to her growing list.

Tock

Hoping the wasp decided to remain outside, it really was too hot to close the window, her attention returned to the antique wooden desk upon which her elbows rested. She noticed a few crumbs on her keyboard and reached to brush them off.

Tick

She reached for her mug and sipped the warm water, grimacing at the taste. She wondered how sweet even the warmest of water would taste to a man who had been wandering in the desert for weeks, his throat parched and burning, having finished the last of his meagre water supply two days before.

Tock

Smiling, she returned her attention to the screen in front of her and began to type.

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