With her eyes half opened, Lisa reached under her bed, grabbed her laptop and quickly rested it on her lap. She placed her trembling fingers on the keys, her mouth dry from the bottle of gin she'd devoured the night before.
She typed a few words, before shouting, “Damn!”
The story that had roused her was dancing in front of her eyes, but still out of reach, refusing to transfer to the pages.
Lunatic, the gray cat she loved like her offspring, slithered out of her crowded closet and stretched lazily. He sprang onto the full sized bed and sank into a pile of pillows.
“Ah, the magic word,” Lisa said, scratching Lunatic’s back. “I should’ve named you ‘Damn’ instead.” The cat nipped her fingers before curling up and promptly closing his eyes.
She shook her head and tried to focus on the sentence she couldn’t finish, then as though the story knew she was trying her hardest to capture it, it floated away into the dingy bedroom ceiling.
"Damn!" Lisa repeated. She couldn't believe it. It had been six days since she'd seemed to lose her ability to write. And it all started when she'd quit smoking.
"Killing myself to create," she continued, as she peeked under her bed for the gin bottle. "Literally."
Nestled between her five-inch slingbacks and her beat up converse was the empty bottle. She could've sworn there was a mouthful left. But it wasn't surprising. Lately, she found herself drinking until she passed out...