Time to Write.

I've heard in talks given by wise writers like Elizabeth Gilbert and Wayne Dyer that art and inspiration can sometimes be something the writer or artist channels from another source, something that does not belong to us, therefore, something we are not responsible for how it turns out.  That is how I feel about this piece.  I wrote it while on a set, waiting in holding.  I don't know what it's about or if I will continue it, but it came through me and now here it is:

She looked around her cell.  It was cold.  Since regaining consciousness she’d been allowed a notebook and pen, but had been denied food and water.

“What do they want from me?” she wondered. 

“Write!” shouted a voice in a hushed whisper after a long silence.

She looked around her suddenly, trying to decipher where this strange instruction could have come from.  Her cell was floor to ceiling cement with no windows.  The door was made of cold steel and locked up tight.

“Hello?” she said meekly.  “Is someone else…there?” 

Nothing. 

“I must really be losing it,” she thought to herself.  “Your name is Madeleine Hillcrest,” she said.  “You live at 5211 Riverside Dr.”

Madeleine closed her heavy eyelids.  She welcomed sleep although she had slept for most of the time she’d been locked away.  She hadn’t the slightest idea how long that could have possibly been either.  Hours?  Days?  Weeks?  She suspected they had given her something that kept her so drowsy.  Madeleine felt her mind and body start to drift away.

“Write!!” came the voice again, more insistent this time and most obviously a female’s.

Madeleine’s eyes flew open.

“What should I write?” she asked, becoming frustrated.  “I’m not even a writer for God’s sake!”

“Oh, great, now you’ve lost it,” Madeleine said to herself with a laugh.  “You’re all alone and shouting at no one.”

She calmed herself.

Then came the voice again.

“Write about…the last things…you remember,” it said.

That was the first thing the voice had said to her that made any sense.  She picked up the pen and immediately felt weak.  If only they would give her something to eat, something with some sugar, maybe she would be able to concentrate.

Seeing nothing else to be done, Madeleine used all of her strength to put her pen to paper and then she started to write.

If anyone has any hunches as to what comes next, leave them in my comments :)