"You need to have more conjunction between sentences before this story is right," said the first sentence.
John slammed his fist down on the desk. "Shut up! This is my story."
"Yeah, like you can write." The word count giggled.
"Wasn't your last novel a flop?" asked a comma.
"I heard his agent say that if he doesn't do a bestseller this time the agency's through with him," whispered an adverb to a pronoun.
The writer tried to calm down, but instead a headache formed behind his eyes. "Look, guys, let's write the story my way this time, and the next one's yours. How about that?"
"Hell," growled the last word. "I'm at the end of this miserable mess and to tell you the truth, there won't be a next novel--it's that bad."
"Yeah, like a penny awful," agreed the title. "Even I'm pathetic. Blood of the Vampire."
"Sounds like something a five-year old thought up," piped up an exclamation point in a bored voice.
For an exclamation point to be bored was the last straw for John. He bolted from his office and grabbed a hammer from the utility room. He carried it back to the office and ignoring the screams, he brought it down hard, smashing a hole in the screen. Sparks and crackling sounds filled the air as the laptop died. For insurance, the power cord was yanked from the machine and wall at the same time and tossed aside.
"That should shut you up," said John with a snarl.
The printer whirred to life and began printing up pages of the novel, shooting it out like cannonballs. He slammed the hammer down on the printer. Down and down, again and again, until nothing but pieces remained.
John thumped down in his chair and dropped the hammer. It hit the carpet with a soft thud. His hands cupping the back of his head, he leaned back and laughed as he surveyed the damage.
"Guess I need to get a new laptop and printer, but God, it's peaceful. No damn words jabbering at me."
He savored the quiet until he heard something.
Oh, no, it can't be...
The headache pounded as something appeared on the screen. It was a page from his novel, some of the words missing from the hole in the middle. John jumped up and picked up the machine with his hands.
"I destroyed you. There's no way you can come back on—not with a hole in you."
"Well, it looks like you don't know everything. Just like you don't know how to write a good story either, dingle berry!" snorted a period. "I am so ashamed to be a part of this manuscript."
"What kind of software did my wife pick up for me?" John threw the laptop. It slammed into the wall and leaving a large crack in the drywall, slid down to the floor. He grabbed the hammer and went to work pulverizing it. "I'll stop you. Do you hear me?"
Instead of screams and pleas, voices mocked him. "Hey, don't blame us. Blame that bitch wife of yours. She's the one who bought the software with your credit card, along with that butt-ugly lamp for the living room. The lamp you hate."
Gritting his teeth, John banged harder with the hammer. They were right. He hated that lamp. Maybe he would use the hammer on that next.
The yelling finally stopped. John clutched the hammer with a death grip as he straightened and turned, his breathing harsh. Sweat beaded his face. One drop dripped from his double chin.
YOU ARE READING
Death of the Apostrophe (#TNTHorrorContest)Horror
A completed short story. A writer believes that the new writing software is making the words and punctuations marks in his work in progress taunt him, making him go insane. Enough to kill to shut them up.