Gemotions

He stared at the blank screen, the cursor blinking mockingly, reflecting his own stagnant state. A writer, they called him. More like a word-gatherer. His apartment felt like a prison. He needed to get out.

The afternoon sun, still weak, illuminated the dusty attic. He’d been meaning to clear it out for months. The task loomed over him, a dark cloud of a thing. He began to rummage through the boxes.

He pushed aside some moth-eaten blankets. There, amongst the clutter, he found it: a small, rectangular box made of some kind of metal. He had no memory of it. He opened it, hoping for a clue, or a spark.