Elliot put on his writer's mask and glared at the computer monitor. The text cursor blinked
in and out of existence, demanding additions to his opus. Squinting, he typed
in a small bit “The man reached for the pistol, his hand shaking.” Sighing,
Elliot deleted the words. All the text tonight was just coming out crap after all.
Leaning back, he pushed the chair back and spun it around. Maybe the nausea
would give him some inspiration.
