Implanted Illusions

A (very) short story I started to write a while ago while sitting at the computer uninspired, seeing what would come up if I gave it long enough. I finished it this evening by deleting the last line. If only finishing things was always so simple…

The Perfect Piece

A fresh sheet of paper laid ready before her: smooth, unblemished, pristine white and perfectly rectangular. A pen poised in her hand, on the verge of writing the perfect piece, she awaited inspiration.

The sunlight reflected sharply from the silvery pen, and softly across the surface of the paper. Many hours were spent on the verge, desperately trying to come up with the idea to beat all other ideas, but nothing was ever quite good enough.

As the hours passed the day slipped away into night, and still the paper remained untouched. A flick of a switch as the sun set, and the room filled with a warm, incandescent glow. She would persevere through the night.

The cycle of day and night passed an unknown number of times, and still pen and paper never got to meet. But then it happened, an idea came to her. She stood up, stretched, and left the room.