The end of this short story.
An end that had ducked in and out of sight since I'd started this tale about two months ago - more than twice the amount of time a short story first draft usually takes.
And there it was.
Finally, I knew where this was going and how it was getting there.
I could see it.
A glance at the clock showed I had another hour before both hands went straight up.
The Witching Hour.
Cinderella's Coach Turns Back into a Pumpkin Hour.
In other words, my bedtime.
I could do this.
After all, I could see the ending right there, just as plain as the type on this
I just needed to get it down.
But what if what I wanted to happen and the barely remotely possible to happen didn't jive? This piece is a bit of historical fiction, dark. Even if I made the whole thing up, it at least should make some kind of sense, timeline wise.
Google me this and Google me that.
Chalk up about thirty to forty-five minutes of research - adding history to medical facts, trying to get what I found to equal what I saw in my head. Kind of like algebra but with words and facts instead of numbers and letters. Equally hair-pullingly frustrating however.
Finally, finally, I found a way for it to work. Granted it's thin and if some determined soul truly wanted to poke holes in it, they could have field day with it. But finally, finally, I got it to go.
Read it over.
Not perfect. Not nearly ready for critters to tear into with red typeface and
My heart beat just a little fast in my ears.
Exhausted but invigorated.
Mind racing but as lively as a wad of storm-wet leaves.
Satisfied but already fussing with the bits that weren't quite right.
It was done.
The rough of the short that refused to have a middle, never mind an end, now had both.
A look at the clock.
Five hours, twenty minutes until the alarm goes off, heralding the arrival of
I can do this.
It might take a wee bit of coffee though...