The Grecian Urn
by Karl El-Koura
He leaned back from his typewriter, blinking forcefully, reading the words at the top of the white page one more time. Had he written them himself, Lew Pevens wondered, or had they just appeared?
The Grecian Urn will help you.
The typewriter, an Underwood Portable modeled on the one used by Faulkner, cost as much as three top-of-the-line iPads, but was not connected to the internet, just like Faulkner’s never had been.
He got up. He needed a break. How long since he’d spoken to another person? Three weeks and two days. His wife Joy had promised him a month of uninterrupted time to kickstart his new novel; she had been true to her word, as long as he sent proof-of-life text messages every morning.
In three weeks and two days, he’d done lots of typing, at all hours of the night and day, but no writing: everything that came out of the typewriter went right into the overflowing round garbage pail set conveniently close to the desk, where the words he had to force out of himself belonged.
On his way to the small kitchen to make more coffee for his sleep-deprived mind, he caught a glimpse of the empty mantle above the fireplace; rather, the mantle that had been empty that morning when he’d walked into the room he called his office. Now a small Grecian urn, ebony-based with figures in brown and red, sat in the center.