Keys pound in rapid succession on an old Underwood Typewriter in short violent bursts like death spewing from the barrel of a Thompson sub-machine gun. They say words are more powerful than weapons, they're definitely more subtle. The right words can turn a sinner into a saint, or darken the heart of the purest virgin, and when written down, put into print, they often take on a life of their own which can long outlive their author.

     Jack Spaulding sits at his small writing desk in a circle of light cast from a single light bulb within a round metal shade hanging above him like a suspect in a police interrogation room. He's been interrogated before, but he never tells them much. They can read it in his next newspaper article or his newest novel. Jack knows a lot; names, dates, times; but a man has to be careful what he says, and what he writes. Lives can be changed, even destroyed, by careless words; or well aimed ones.

     He snubs out his cigarette in the overfilled ashtray and finishes the sip of gin left in his jelly jar then covers the typewriter, an unfinished page still in the carriage. Jack rinses the jar in the bathroom sink and puts it in the medicine cabinet next to his shaving cup and brush. He puts the half-pint of gin on the shelf beside the mouthwash and straightens his tie in the mirror. He picks up his hat and overcoat from the bed and walks out of his small room.

"Framed"

 Maxwell Cynn