The Last Author

“Writing again?” asked the nurse.

The old woman in the hospital bed looked up from her work. She didn’t recognize the white-clad woman. There were so many nurses here.

“Yes, almost finished.” The old woman smiled to herself, revealing for a moment her toothless grin.

“What I don’t understand Mrs. Behrman, is why you do it?”

“Why I write?”

“Yeah. There is no need. No one does that anymore. You can just ask one of these things,” she said motioning to the iTab in her hand. “It will write whatever you want in 50 seconds flat.”

“It’s not the same,” Mrs. Behrman said unable to continue. Her fingertips were numb with age, so adjusting the pen in her hand was a job for her free hand that she used to steady the page.

“Isn’t it? They’re just as good as the old stuff we had to read in school, Charlotte’s Egg.”

“Charlotte’s Web” Mrs. Behrman corrected.

“Yeah, that one! I could write you a story about a spider in 50 seconds flat. So why do you do it? Every time I see you, you are hunched over that paper.”

“I have a story to tell… inside of me.”

“Let the bot write it, you’d get it out a lot quicker. You could just relax and watch some television" suggested the nurse.

“It isn’t the same. That might be a story, made up of all the same parts, but at the end of the day it’s just a jumble of words. Where is the soul in that?”

“But it’s easy. Writing things down is hard.”

Mrs. Behrman’s hands ached, the gnarled swollen knuckles of her right hand burned.

“…won’t get the story out of me.” She mumbled beyond the pain and weariness of her 90 years. “I didn’t do it when I was younger, because I couldn’t afford to. I had to work in an office, so it has to come out now.” Tears were welling up in her pale blue eyes.

“I don’t mean to upset you…just curious...”said the nurse as she picked up the spare blanket at the foot of the bed.
Mrs. Behrman looked around the room for the first time in what seemed like hours. It was late, the windows in her room were dark.

“I’m not upset… just tired.”

“I imagine you are,” said the nurse folding the woolen blanket and draping it over the spare chair.

“I think that’s enough for tonight.” Mrs. Behrman put down pen, and fumbled with numb fingertips to get the paper off the smooth surface of the hospital table. The nurse watched silently.

“I’m so close.” She licked her thumb and forefinger tasting the blue ink marks that would never wash off. She tried again and this time success. She held out the yellow lined paper to the nurse. “I’m almost finished. Will you put this is the others?”

“Of course Mrs. Behrman.” The nurse said taking the yellowed paper and placing it on top of her iTab. She turned off the overhead lights and said “Goodnight.”

As she walked back to the nurse’s station she passed the vending machines. She crumpled the yellow paper and dropped it among the plastic snack food wrappers. “I’ll put it with the others.” She murmured, not to spite the old delusional woman, it was simply what they did with the random sheets of paper she passed them.

During the night the last author in the world died.

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