Word Count
By T. W. Ambrose



It was four o'clock

on a sunny afternoon when Michael Ryan arrived home from work. He tossed his brief case on the chair, waved in the general direction of his wife, entered his office and closed the door. He followed this same routine every day. Sitting down behind his computer, he put on his headphones. He pushed aside the pile of bills his wife kept moving to the center of the desk, and cleared away a stack of dishes from previous meals. Why couldn't she just understand the importance of what he was doing and pick up his dishes every now and then? The stacks of rejections next to the computer caught his eye. He glared, feeling they were somehow responsible for ten years of failures; dozens of short stories and novelettes, four anthologies' he had tried to write for, and his first two novels. His work had been seen by hundreds of publishers, but here he sat, unpublished.

Things were about to change. He had started writing his fantasy trilogy, Day of Draconians, nearly nine months ago, and one agent had compared his work to that of a young Tracy Hickman. They wanted, however, to see all three books before committing to anything. Now it just broke down to simple numbers: Michael needed to write 1500 words a day, each day, for the next six months. He just needed to concentrate, focus and write. Writers wrote and Michael was going to be a writer. True, his wife, his kids; they all had to take a backseat while he wrote, but someday they would understand. Someday, they would see it was all for them.

Michael was just getting settled into his story, when he first heard his wife shout. He glanced up at the clock; it was nearly five. His wife shouted again, and the baby was crying. Apparently, help was needed with a dirty diaper. She was more than capable of handling it. He tried to tune her out. His daughter had been sick, and the last thing he needed was that smell stuck in his nose for the rest of the evening. Besides, she should know better. He was writing. Michael glanced at the door to make sure it was locked. Then he turned up his music and went back to work.

Over the next hour or so, Michael was continually disturbed by his wife's yelling. Didn't she understand the longer she kept him distracted, the longer he would be in here? Why couldn't she just be rational? More like him? Michael soon realized that he had written the same sentence a number of times; “Out of the shadow reached the cold reptilian hand of the Draconian; the fingers were around Taren's neck before he realized it.” This was a sign he had lost focus. He was still a long way from 1500 words. He stared at the screen for a few minutes, hit the backspace key a number of times, and went back to work.

Michael had lost all measure of time when he heard a small knock on his door. He knew that knock-it was the knock of his oldest daughter, Becca. She was only seven, but she knew the rules. There shall be no bugging daddy when he's in his office.
“Daddy's working, Sweetie.” He tried to sound loving over his irritation. “Daddy, you're always working. Won't you please come tuck me in?” Her voice was whiney and tired.

“I'll be in when I'm done, Honey. Daddy loves you.” Michael did love his daughter, and did want to tuck her in, but he knew if he got up now he would never finish; he was far too easily distracted. Her knocks continued, but he ignored them. He had to. And he ignored the sound of tears as she walked away and went to her bedroom down the hall.

It was nearly eight o'clock when the phone rang. Odd, Michael thought. His wife had no friends, although maybe she did now -- he really hadn't talked to her much at all over the past months. But it was a little price to pay. It took a lot of time to write the next big fantasy trilogy. You can't become the next J.R.R. Tolkien without a little sacrifice. But then again, Michael figured, Tolkien's wife must have been far more understanding. The phone continued to ring off and on over the next couple hours. Once or twice his curiosity overtook him and he picked up the phone to eavesdrop. His wife sounded angry, so did his sister-in-law. He hung back up; he would deal with it later.
Michael glanced up at the clock, it was 9:07. He was hungry. Taking his headphones off, he plugged in his hotplate. Five minutes later, he was forking up canned spaghetti from a small tin pan. As he ate, he could hear his wife talking with his oldest daughter. The two of them were banging around.
“Why are the kids still up?” He shouted.

No answer.
“Get them to bed. They have school tomorrow, and I won't be out to tuck them in for a while.” Michael put his headphones back on, and sat the rest of the spaghetti off to the side. He had work to do, and this night of a thousand distractions was not going to get the best of him.

Shortly after ten, Michael saw headlights and heard a car pull up his driveway. He heard his wife yell something at him, but with his earphones blaring he couldn't make out what she said. The door slammed and a couple minutes later, the car pulled out of his driveway, squealing its tires as it hit the road. For the first time that night, the house was still and quiet. What happened, Michael thought? Did she leave? Did she take my kids? Michael stood and moved towards the door. “Janet?” He said cautiously.

He opened the door and shouted again. He shut his office door. Walking down the hall, and peered into his Becca's room. The bed was still made, and hangers were strewn around the room. It felt empty and cold.

He walked throughout the rooms of the house, finally entering his bedroom. The dresser drawers stood open and empty, like the rest of the house. Michael sat on the end of his perfectly-made bed and picked up a picture of him and his wife that lay face down on the bed stand.
“Janet!”

I don't have time for this, Michael thought. He stood and walked back down the hall. The door to his office stood open. He could see strange red light coming from his computer. That's odd, he thought. Michael stepped around the desk, but all he saw was his text document; the page hadn't changed. What seemed like an eternity passed as he stood there deciding what to do. Finally, he picked up the phone and started to dial. He knew he had to call her, to apologize. What did writing matter without Janet? But as he started to dial the number he heard a slight tapping on the inside of his monitor. He paused and the tapping stopped. Michael listened for a moment, then quickly finished dialing the number. Finally, the phone started ringing. Suddenly, a now loud knocking sounded inside his monitor. He quickly hung up the phone and sat back down in his chair.

Several minutes passed. Michael sat and stared at the screen, finally noticing his word count for the day; one thousand four hundred and ninety three, all he needed was seven more words. I'll finish first, then call, he thought. Moving his hands to the keyboard, he started to write his final sentence. But something moved at the corner of the monitor. He smacked himself, knowing his eyes must be playing tricks on him. Michael blinked a few times and looked down at his keyboard. Then he heard the tapping at his screen again, He looked up and the tapping grew louder. He leaned in closed peering deep into the screen, his eyes starting to blur. Then he saw the large reptilian hand reaching out for him. Michael screamed, but there was no one in the house left to hear him. He stood, and stumbled backwards knocking dirty plates and rejection slips from his desk.

Looking down, he saw a picture of his wife and kids; it had also fallen on the floor. He reached for it the picture. The hand reached for his neck. The cold fingers wrapped around Michael's neck, claws digging deeply into his flesh, yet he never took his eyes of the picture of his family that lay inches from his grasp. The fingers continued to tighten, yet he didn't even struggle. A tear formed in the corner of Michael's eye and he watched it drop down on the picture, mingling with drops of his own blood. Michael Ryan would die alone.

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