".45 Caliber Jitterbug"

Keys pounded in rapid succession on an Underwood typewriter in short violent bursts like death spewing from the barrel of a Thompson sub-machine gun. They say words were 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 – outliving their author.

Jack Spaulding sat at his small writing desk in a circle of light caste from a single bulb set in a round metal shade that hung above him, much like a suspect in a police interrogation room. He'd been interrogated a few times, but he never told them much. They could read it in his newspaper articles or his latest novel. Jack knew a lot – names, dates, times – but a man had to be careful what he said, and what he wrote. Lives could be changed, even destroyed, by careless words – or well aimed ones.

He snubbed out his cigarette in the overfilled ashtray and finished the sip of gin left in a small jelly jar nearby, then covered the typewriter – an unfinished page still in the carriage. Jack rinsed the jar in the bathroom sink and put it in the medicine cabinet next to his shaving cup and brush. He put the half-pint of gin on the shelf beside the mouthwash and straightened his tie in the mirror. He picked up his hat and overcoat from the bed and walked out of his small room.

Maxwell Cynn