Open Writing

I looked down at the keyboard. There was blood on it. I recoiled (as one does).

'I'm sweating blood,' I said.

'It's not blood,' a voice behind me said.

'What is it, then?' I asked, not turning.

'It's red wine, of course. You've spilt some.'

'No, I never spill red wine.'

'Surely that can't be true.'

'Well, it is ... So it must be blood.'

'All right, then - Where's it come from?'

'It must be from my hands, you idiot.'

'No need to be offensive . . . Turn round, let me look. Palms up ... No, nothing there. No sign of blood. No cuts or even contusions.'

'Contusions? What the hell are contusions?'

'Bruises.'

'How d'you know that?'

'I used to be a doctor.'

'So what are you doing here, in my house?'

'Just visiting. Your wife invited me.'

'Well, perhaps she did, but she didn't say you could come into my study, did she, while I'm writing?'

'Hm, it's not much of a study.'

'It's all I've got, doctor.'

'And what are you writing?'

'Oh ... this and that.'

**

To read more of Richard's fast fiction please click on http://www.openwriting.com/archives/fast_fiction/