Wild Fiction

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He did not hear Miracle come into the study but he did notice when she jumped onto his desk and sat on the corner. He stared hard at her. She gazed back nonchalantly before licking her black and white fur coat. He returned to his writing and managed to scribble two more lines before Miracle walked over and placed her bottom in the middle of the page he was working on. He tried to poke the pencil at her to get her to move but she just raised a paw and batted it out of the way. A short fencing match followed which the cat won by trapping the pencil on the desk with both its front paws. The author resorted to strong-arm tactics and carried the cat out of the study and shut the door. It was only minutes before the scratching at the base of the door made the author open it again and the lithe feline was back on its turf. This time Miracle settled on the window ledge and allowed the author to return to his story.
Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca, he thought to himself. What will become of her? He did not like the way Conrad was moving in on her. He would have to put an end to that. If anybody was going to get close to Rebecca, it was going to be him. In his mind, he pictured the body he had created. Although he had not seen her naked, he knew how he had pieced her together. Slender smooth legs leading up to a pair of curvaceous buttocks. A firm and flat waist under a pair of pert upturned breasts. An elegant neck supporting full lips, high cheekbones and startlingly blue eyes. All overseen by silky blonde hair.
He had a term for this. He called it ‘authorial crush.’ He had even written an article on it that no one would publish. The article was titled: Authors who Fall in Love with their Work. It dealt with failed authors who could not bring themselves to ditch obviously flawed and misplaced characters they had created because they had fallen in love with them. Of course, not for a moment did he think that it applied to himself.
He rubbed his face with his hands and stood up. Miracle was playing with a ladybird that had just flown in through the window. The author tried to get the ladybird away from Miracle but only ended up with a few scratches on his hand.
He looked out of the window and down to the bottom of the garden. It was a beautiful morning, unusually so for England. The weather reporter had mentioned water restrictions if it did not rain within the next week. A drought in England, he thought, how unusual. He watched a family of squirrels playing on the lawn before returning to his desk.
17
‘Hello.’
The voice came from behind the author. He turned around and saw Rebecca in the doorway. Her hair was held back in a ponytail and he noticed that she was not wearing any make-up. She was more beautiful than he remembered. The make-up at the beginning had been a mistake, his mistake.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘I’m writing your story, my dear,’ he replied with a smile.

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