If he knew that it would come to this, Rustam would never ever start writing. When his sandwich bled curry spiced ketchup on his brand new shoes, inspiration struck Rustam so hard, he had to call the boss and get a day off. Rushed home and after making sure that his Italian, leather beauties will survive without permanent damage, Rustam opened his laptop.
His whole life he thought that writing is something sublime, beyond grasp of ordinary accountant like himself. It turned out it's easy-peasy. Whiteness of the screen he filled with so much symbols, so easily as if he was pouring himself wine. He didn't pause to read or correct typos that were result of his nearly hysterical tempo of typing.
Story was pale at first. Then claws, legs, feathers, bust, thin arms and wide wings that barely fit the only room of Rustam's tiny flat. Finally she nodded at him with her catlike head and showed him her hungry teeth which drooled saliva. And Rustam kept feeding her, writing line after line.
He didn't catch the exact moment of change. He would even completely miss the smudge if it didn't appear covering letter F , where starting point for left hand's fingers was on the keyboard. Under fingertips he felt something moist and thick, like curry spiced ketchup. He lifted his head just in time to duck. Story missed her clawed blow aimed at writer's temple. Rustam dived under the desk, and feathered monstrosity jumped at his desk, slamming the laptop shut.
Writer crawled, scurrying to the coat crumpled on the bed, manically seeking his phone. Story perched on the table, licking her lips. If I could only remember the phone number of Literary Police, thought Rustam.
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