Okay, here. I hope this is a little better, at least.

[U]The Writer[/U]

The writer sat on a park bench, admiring the view. It was mostly bright outside, with the sun slipping behind the clouds only occasionally. The park was devoid of the people, dogs, and Frisbees that could usually be found there. That was just fine with the writer. He liked to be alone.

A light breeze blew through the tree leaves and across the back of the writer’s neck. He shivered and frowned. It wasn’t quite warm enough to justify a cool breeze. He made note of this, and the wind died away as gently as it had arrived.

He smiled. That was much better. It was a real bestseller of a day.

The writer looked down at his notebook. It was open to the first page, which was empty. He tapped his pen against his lip. He came to this park every day to silently observe the scenery and do his writing, but today he was having trouble. He had run out of ideas.

He doodled aimlessly on the page’s corners. Soon the scribbled lines turned into words, and the words formed sentences.

The writer couldn’t help but grin. This one was going to be his best piece yet.

The writer heard footsteps approaching. He looked up from his notebook. Footsteps? Oh. A plot twist. Sometimes he wrote things before realizing it. He’d just have to see how this turned out.

A young woman was walking briskly – yes, he liked that – down the trail. She was very pretty, almost unrealistically so. Typical of his work.

As she passed the bench, she smiled at the writer. He didn’t like that. He averted his gaze.

‘I’m going to kill you,’ he thought to himself.

The woman stopped and took a couple steps back. “Pardon me?”

He looked up at her and opened his mouth to speak. But then he paused. Was this such a good idea? He hadn’t counted on this woman showing up in the first place. What would she do?

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“I said I’m going to kill you,” he said.

Her eyebrows went up a little, but she didn’t seem too phased. “You’re gonna kill me?”

He certainly hadn’t expected that. He was starting to wish he’d never bothered with her.

“Yes,” he said. “I think I am.”

She cocked her head to one side with a playful grin on her face. Obviously she didn’t believe him.

“May I ask why?”

She was making him very uncomfortable. He wished she’d just go away.

The writer looked down at his notebook and thought for a second. “This is my story, and I liked it more without you in it.”

He stood over her now, tapping his pen against his lip. She was dead. He couldn’t remember getting up, but he must have done so. He’d have to come back and edit that little inconsistency later.