The Creative Process

Marcus Phipps scratched his chin, he hadn’t shaved in several days and the sprouting stubble rasped beneath his fingers. In his glasses the dim blue glare of the laptop screen reflected an image of an empty word document. He sighed before taking them off, rubbing the lenses with his t-shirt. Squinting at the keyboard Marcus poked a few keys with the first finger on each hand. Replacing his glasses, he attempted a few more strikes but then removed whatever it was that he had written with a series of irritated taps of delete.

Sighing again, he leaned to the left and pulled open a desk draw. He reached in and withdrew a packet of cigarettes. ‘Shit’ he exclaimed as he opened the packet ‘no fags’. Kicking his chair back, he stood up, swung on his coat and marched for the door pausing only to straighten his hair in the mirror on the way out.

Locking the door behind him Marcus looked suspiciously over his shoulder. Across the street parked underneath a leafless oak tree was a blue van. There was nothing unusual about this van, but that was precisely what aroused suspicion in Michael. It seemed familiar; he had seen it there before parked in the same spot two days ago. He unlocked his car and slid onto the driver’s seat. Adjusting the mirror as he pulled away he scrutinised the reflection of the blue van, it didn’t move. He wasn’t being paranoid; he had definitely seen that van before in the same spot. “I’m under surveillance” he thought to himself.

The van hadn’t followed him; they weren’t going to blow their cover that easily, they would sit and wait for him to come back later. He couldn’t relax though, above the whir of rotor blades alerted Marcus to a helicopter idling over head. Ducking his head beside the wheel to see higher out of the windscreen, he mumbled to himself in a gruff monotone voice: “Man, these pigs must really think they have something on me”.

He pulled over slowly in front of a row of shops. Turning to lock the car his eyes flicked above him, to the side, then over his shoulder before falling on the reflection of a man standing behind him in the drivers window. He spun and reached for his gun.
“Marky!!” cried a sweaty man in dark blue shorts and a white t-shirt. “I haven’t seen you in days, still locking yourself away trying to complete that little crime novel of yours? God you look like shit.”

“Yeah I feel like it. I’m just grabbing some cigarettes.” He replied, confused and disorientated.

“Still smoking ay? You should pack it in, like I did, I’ve never looked back, now I feel like a new man.” asserted the sweaty man, jogging on the spot. His smug smile made Marcus want to punch him.

They were interrupted by a rapid shrill beeping coming from the sweaty man’s wristwatch. “Oh that’s my heart rate monitor, got to go, keep my heartbeat above 110 bpm. Good luck mate.”

“Good luck mate” mouthed Marcus mockingly as the sweaty man trotted off. He was prone to such acts of childish immaturity, ex-girlfriends had criticised him for it before, but Marcus enjoyed it and resorted to such mockery when left with little else to say.
He crossed the street and in to the small shop on the corner. As he entered his eyes instinctively narrowed into a hard unflinching stare. Like a Gargoyle he stood in the flickering fluorescent light inspecting the interior. In the far corner he saw the warped reflection of himself in a concave mirror fixed to the ceiling. Hanging from a doorway on the opposite wall thick strips of rubber flapped quietly in a breeze that had entered with him. A smell escaped from behind that doorway. It was unmistakable, as familiar to him as the smoke of the Cigar that continuously smouldered between his lips; it was the smell of death. Heavy and stomach churning, it hung in the air like a bad joke at a dinner party.

“Two years” he thought to himself, “two years, I’ve been on the tail of this fucker and this is how he slips up; a dead body in the meat locker, a Popsicle cadaver”. He clenched his fists until the knuckles glowed white like hot coal, his cold steel glare fixed on the swaying flaps in the doorway; waiting for that psycho to make his next mistake.

“Mr Phipps.... Oh Mr Phipps” Marcus shook away his thoughts and turned to the lady that stood behind the counter.

“Oh, Mr Phipps you were quite lost in your own world there weren’t you? What was it you could have been thinking about?” enquired the frail voice belonging to the shopkeeper. She smiled, her elderly face folded into wrinkles but her eyes beamed a youthfulness that betrayed the beauty she once had.

“I was just trying to remember what I needed to buy, Mary” Marcus replied excusing himself.

“Well it must have been a long list” grinned Mary “Now what can I do you for my dear?”

“Just a pack of cigarettes for now” Marcus said dropping a handful of coins on the counter “I’ll come back later when I have remembered what I needed.”

He snapped up the cigarettes and immediately unwrapped the plastic packaging. Before he had stepped out of the shop a cigarette already hung limply from his top lip, while he fished in his pockets for a lighter.

The tip of the cigarette crackled as he dipped it into the flame. Marcus inhaled slowly savouring a lung full of nicotine. A vibration in his trouser pocket alerted him to the outside world which he had been ignoring recently. He told his friends; “I need to cut myself off from all distractions, immerse myself in imagination and creativity.” They accused him of being a hermit, he told them they could never understand the creative process. Eyeing the name of the screen on his phone and sneering, he pressed the red call end button.

Outside his door, a hand plunged deep into a pocket searching for his keys; Marcus pondered a moment the bronzed numbers nailed above the letterbox: 22. He climbed the stairs to his first floor apartment intently ruminating upon some little detail, some trifling article otherwise ignored by the less perspicacious. He hovered over a worn leather chair and lit a cigarette. He took from the shelf, which had been adorned with a number of trinkets and unusual ornaments, a silver framed picture. Still holding the photograph he dropped into the armchair adjusting his position to tessellate most comfortably with the contours of the furniture. He considered the face gazing back at him from behind the glass. She was always the woman for him. He mentioned her rarely, but for him Imogen Addleton both encompassed all women and eclipsed them. He knew not the emotion of love, and it would be impossible to say if he felt such a thing for this lady. His precise and calculating mind abhorred such afflictions of emotion. The desires of the heart did not belong to him, did not taint the efficient clock-work of his thinking.

He cast aside the photograph and analysed a cigar case that lay on a coffee table by his side. He gauged the dimensions of the cigar case precisely; its luminosity had been tainted only by the smear of a thumb across one side. It did not carry with it a deep throaty smell of tobacco but rather a faint smell of almond emanated from with in. It was apparent to even the most simple minded that this had been the receptacle with which the poison was stored. However, to whom it had belonged was no clear matter. A knock at the door interrupted his ruminations, this distraction he tolerated only for it signalled the arrival of his assistant and loyal companion.

“Marcus, darling, I’ve been worried sick about you”

It was Marcus’ mother, standing in the doorway, a concerned smile on her face and a large tupa-wear box in her hands. She pushed pass Marcus and passed a judging eye across his apartment.

“Look at this place, it’s a hovel!” exclaimed his Mother more concerned than disgusted. “How can you live here? I’ll tidy up, now you take this, put it in the oven for twenty minutes... oh and put the kettle on darling I’m parched”

Marcus thought about protesting but knew it would be in vane. He threw the tupawear box in the microwave, flicked on the kettle and watched his mother despairingly. She moved around the apartment darting from one place to the other; like a tornado in reverse. In an hour the mess that he had spent 2 weeks cultivating had vanished and his mother sat opposite him tentatively blowing at her cup of tea.

“So how is the book, darling?”

“Not good, I’m having a bit of writers block” admitted Marcus

“Well this can’t be helping, you can’t lock yourself away in this squalid apartment not eating properly and...” before she had finished Marcus lit a cigarette “...and smoking too much” she looked at him with a pained expression.

“I am fine, Mum, i’ll quit smoking tomorrow and go for a run in the morning. Now I really need to get something written tonight the deadline for the draft of my first five chapters is Monday” insisted Marcus getting up from the table.

His eyes stung to stare at the laptop. His clothes were worn and stained. He remembered his life before he started running, he missed the dull day-to-day existence from then that now seemed distant and unfamiliar. All he could remember was running, trying to evade them, survive long enough to prove his innocence. He now sat in front of the computer that could put an end to it all. Somewhere inside were the documents he needed. He had only a few minutes.

The screen instructed him to enter a password. This was simple, he had deciphered the code that had been left for him. It took some time for him to realise what it was for but he was sure now. He keyed in ‘rosebud’ and watched the screen change. In a rapid succession of mouse clicks he had found the folder he needed. He took a breath and opened the file. Almost simultaneously a shrill rhythmic blasted from behind him. He swivelled on the chair to see where it came from.

The digital clock beside his bed was flashing in the dark of the room. It showed 7.00 am. It had been wrong for days but Marcus hadn’t changed it. He slapped the button on the top of the clock and the beeping stopped. He span round to face the laptop again and stared vacantly at the screen. He breathed in slowly and let out an exasperated sigh; “Still nothing”.