COMPLETED WORKS

THE VISITOR

by Curtis W. Long

He sat immobile at the computer, with his hands resting lightly on the keypad. The creative instinct had dried up. There was no desire to do anything--to write neither a song nor a poem. Writing a novel was a possibility, but what to write about? It wasn't as though he had nothing to write about; he had had plenty of experiences, but did he want to put them into print? Were they worth putting into print? Could they stand being in print? Could he stand having them in print?

As he sat there, there was a knock at the door. He went over and asked who it was. A voice said it was his conscience. He asked it what it wanted. It said that he needed it, and asked to be let in. He shouted for it to go away. It said that it could not leave, that he had summoned it. He shouted again that he had not summoned anybody, and to please go away. It called back that it was not "anybody," but his conscience, and a conscience knows when it is summoned. He shouted, this time louder, that whatever it was, he was not going to let it in. It responded that, since it was summoned, it could not go away until it had been properly consulted. Considerably exercised by now, with voice trembling, he again shouted that it could stay as long as it wished, but he was not going to open the door. It responded that it was not necessary to open the door, that it would suffice simply to open his mind.

He left the door and returned to thse computer.