Picabo Creative

In a shambles

“Describe a room or person in complete shambles”

Ten minutes had passed and Amber hadn’t lifted her head from the table. Her arms were wrapped dramatically around the top of her head, her eyes focused on the carpet below the desk. She was afraid to look at the blank word document on the screen of her laptop, afraid to see the angrily blinking cursor, taunting and judgmental, looking back at her. What would have looked like a woman asleep in front of her screen saver to any outside observer, was actually a breakdown of minorly epic proportions.

Amber had known this was coming, had even taken up smoking to try and impede it’s arrival, but she was in full panic mode. Her thesis was due in three months and she didn’t have anything but a droplet of ideas, nothing to make a full novel out of. She thought this was going to be easy! Hell, she was a writer after all…what do writers do but write books! More times than not lately, she had walked upstairs to her office, turned on the computer and promptly assumed the above position.

She stared at her bare toes on the carpeted floor, the perfectly manicured pink nails shining against the dull tan carpeting. Her daily beauty rituals had been vamped up to fill otherwise unproductive time. She had never been more attractive and well kept while at the same time accomplishing next to nothing. For a short time Amber had considered finding a sugar daddy and becoming a professional wife, but eventually had to admit she would bore too easily. Plus she didn’t really like being fussed over anyway.

With a sigh, her right hand moved to the keyboard and she smacked it with her palm to awaken the computer from it’s slumber. Still without moving her forehead from the desk, her fingers deftly found the power button, powered down, and shut the lid. With her blank electronic foe put away temporarily, Amber found the strength to sit up and recline into her computer chair.

The light filtered in through the windows behind her, tinted slightly yellow by the gauzy curtains. It was quite cold outside still, so no fresh breeze filled the room, but a gentle hiss of the heater filled the room with white noise. It was what one would come to expect a writer’s office to look like. There were bookcases standing guard on every wall, filled to the brim with countless tomes and references. A small desk sat in the middle of them all, covered with layers of paper, towering books, newspapers, dirty plates, and at least four visible coffee cups. The only unifying mark on all the objects in the room was the rainbow of sticky notes that seemed to tag each object. In truth, the whole room was in utter disarray. Stacks of books leaned precariously against the walls, forming small pathways leading to vital areas, mainly the door and desk.

Amber surveyed the area critically and promptly blamed her lack of focus and creativity on her surroundings. How could anyone possibly write in a place like this?! she thought to herself. She stuffed her laptop and power cable into a bag, along with a pack of sticky notes, three pens of all different colours, and handful of papers and a few books. With agile grace she avoided the piles of books, shut the office door and went down the stairs to her kitchen.

Sitting at the small island in the centre was her husband Mark. A half-eaten piece of toast and cold cup of coffee showed he had attempted to feed himself, but was now lost to the daily newspaper.