The Cursor

The cursor blinked back at him, a thin black line on a field of white.  

There was a novel inside of him, somewhere.  He felt it jostling around late at night or while driving to work.  Wisdom would spew forth from the character's imaginary mouths.  Carefully crafted plotlines would dance in his mind, proving that he had paid attention to the great story tellers, dissected every movie he had seen, and allowed the great poets to touch his soul with words.  

The cursor blinked back at him.  

He raised his fingers to type, and then set them back down again.  The protagonist needed a name.  The beginning didn't grab tight enough.  Maybe a different story idea would work better.

It blinked again.

A short story might work better.  He could finish it faster.

The cursor blinked.

Or perhaps a poem.

It blinked.

It blinked.

It blinked.