The Hand of God


  What is it with impending deadlines, he thought, pen between his teeth, his face scrunched up in concentration, that makes it less likely for you to work. He glanced up at the clock on his wall, and then to the stack of papers next to him on his desk. The editor wanted his pages in for ten am. He had four hours and forty minutes left. Sun was splitting the horizon but he could only see a slither of it through his curtains. They were pulled shut. Anything that could distract him had been put away and tidied up. He’d played with his miniature skateboard for almost an hour the night before whilst he waited for inspiration to strike, but now – this close to the end – he didn’t have time for such luxuries. Inspiration, that is, not fingerboards.

  No, times like this called instead for flat out work. Balls to the wall, stock scribbling with little passion but maximum output. So why was it that the ticking clock, the descending feeling of dread and the birth of a new sun manage to cause him to stop still all over again, tapping his pen absently against the page. The line art stared up at him, expectant – his job, if anything, was easy now. Mostly inking, a couple of missing frames, but the casual nature of his task didn’t help him to knuckle down.

  He briefly considered taking a break, grabbing some coffee, maybe phoning Kaede – wait, five AM, right – but realized before it got out of hand that his attitude was a destructive one. There was little doubt he’d make the deadline, he always did. It was simply a matter of deciding when exactly. He waited for the pressure to build to that breaking point. The point where mad rush doesn’t even begin to cover it. The point where impossible things seemed to happen. That magical moment when he would inherit the hand of God.


~ by Joseph Blame on February 18, 2011.

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