|"I was thinking of the immortal words of Socrates, who said, '... I drank what?'" --Chris Knight, 'Real Genius'|
The Writer's InkJonathan sat trembling in the dark. He stared at nothing, his eyes not penetrating the circle of blackness that surrounded him. A single lamp illuminated the round table he sat at, allowing him enough light to see the edges of it and nothing more. A tea pot and half-empty cup sat in the centre. With a trembling hand he reached toward it and took it towards his lips, not truly looking at it as he drank. He set the cup down on a plate. The cup rattled against it, the only sound save for the thunder that rumbled in the distance.The Writer's Ink by EricAMBM
He heard a switch flick. Jonathan shut his eyes for a moment, temporarily blinded by the harshness of the light that filled the room. He opened them again to see a small, white kitchen. A single window and two doors broke the array of cabinets the covered the walls.
Standing in an open door was Chris, Jonathan’s friend and housemate. He had a hand on the light switch.
“John, what are you doing? It’s after midnight!” Chris asked.