“Write a story,” I said.
I nodded. Nothing happened.
But then I remembered that, as far as I was supposed to know, nothing was supposed to happen. I walked over to the typewriter desk and looked.
There was a white sheet and a yellow sheet in the typewriter, with a carbon between them. The page was about half filled with typing and then down at the bottom were two words by themselves. I couldn’t read them. I took my glasses off and still I couldn’t, so I put them back on and put my face down within inches of the typewriter and concentrated. The words were “The End.”
I looked over alongside the typewriter and there was a neat, but small pile of typed sheets, alternate white and yellow.
It was wonderful. I’d written a story. If my subconscious mind had anything on the ball, it might be the best story I’d ever written.
Too bad I wasn’t quite in shape to read it. I’d have to see an optometrist about new glasses. Or something.
“Charlie,” I said, “I wrote a story.”
“When?”
“Just now.”