Apartment #3

Morgana sits at the computer, surrounded by her much loved books and shoes, staring at the black lines of text that wind serpent like on the monitor. Perspiration beads upon her upper lip from the heat of the golden morning sun across her face. She frowns while she taps out an allegretto beat on her keyboard and a Marlboro smolders in the ashtray.

The sound of the air conditioner can't drown the shouting match between the trash downstairs, and it pulled her out of her trace like a lifeguard with a drowning swimmer. Her annoyance spills over. "Son of a bitch!" She pounds her fist on the desk. "How the hell am I suppose to work with that racket?"

A door slams, the walls rattle, and the story line she nursed for a week unravels like a poorly knit sweater. With an exasperated sigh, she tucks her short blond hair behind her ears and taps her acrylic nails painted Pretty in Pink on her mouse pad.

After a sip of coffee she paces, hoping to recapture the thread of her story. Anxiety radiates from her. But a flick of her Bic starts nicotine coursing through her system, relieving the tension. Her shoulders lose their stiffness. With an explosive exhale she rushes back to her chair, types the next line of her creation with one hand while she stashes the cigarette in the ashtray to burn away.

Morgana works for another stretch without stopping. She types, scans, cuts, copies and pastes lines with the skill of a surgeon. Just as she's coming to a critical portion of the story line, someone fires up a weed whip under her window. She jumps in her seat, and her concentration pops like a soap bubble. The point she was driving at slips away. "Oh Jesus bleeding Christ." She shoves away from the desk. Stalking to the window, she looks out and sees the guy from downstairs heaving the trimmer back and forth like a madman. "You would think that I could get some peace and quite at 6:30 in the morning. I have to do something about that damn noise, or I'll never finish this story." Her deadline is approaching, and her earnings will put a major upward spike in her house fund. Selling a couple more pieces of her work will make her able to afford that cottage up north. And there she will realize her dream; becoming an accredited author.

But to do so she must be able to concentrate. She has never be able to write through distractions. A ringing telephone, slammed door, or even traffic noise would push her out of creativity, forcing her muse to flee for days or even weeks. Her apartment had been an oasis of calm until those people moved in downstairs. She knew her landlord wouldn't take her complaints seriously, he didn't have to live with the heinous screaming matches or the drunken parties they threw.

Deciding a walk might clear her head and revive her muse, Morgana slips on sweats and gym shoes and heads into the meadow behind her building. The low rent and this broad expanse of unspoiled grass land were the reasons she put up with her slum lord and the scum he usually rented to. She loved looking out and seeing the plants waving in the breeze, or roaming through the tall grasses.

A small group of quail, perhaps six in all startles Morgana out of her thoughts. She watches them peck seeds and stripping the stems off a tall bright green plant. The stalks were mottled with small irregular spots of port-wine color and covered with a white bloom. Morgana knew from research that this was a Hemlock plant, but she's shocked to find it so close to home. She recalls that a steady diet of the seeds and stems impregnate the birds flesh with poison, and how enough will act as a paralyser to the brains centers of motion.

An idea explodes in her mind. If she can catch these birds, she just may have come up with a way to rid herself of the trash downstairs. Of course the landlord would replace them with more trash, but by then her latest piece would be in publication and the check in the bank.

It took her three days and much frustration to catch the quail. Surfing the web she found a method of processing the bird that worked in her tiny kitchen. After that it was simple work to make a batch of Broiled Quail for the drunks ruining her creativity. With her first genuine smile for the neighbors, she carries the poultry dish, rich in soy sauce and sherry, down and knocks on their door.

When the husband opens the door in nothing up yellowed Fruit of the Looms she isn't surprised, and even ratchets up her smile another kilowatt when he snarls "What do you want, you cunt?"

I'm trying out a new recipe and cooked way too much. I was just wondering if you and your wife would mind finishing off the extra. I'd hate to see it go to waste." At his hesitation, she looks over his meaty shoulder at his wife. "Please, think of it as a welcome to the neighborhood gift. I'll never be able to finish it all."

With a shove and an elbow to the ribs, the woman pushes him out of the way. She reaches out for the dish and slurs, "Well yesh, sure. We'll take it, cuz I ain't cookin, ya fucker!"

The door slams in Morgana's face without even a "thank you", and she hears the couple's voices spiral into another argument. This doesn't phase her though, and she is almost skipping as she heads back up to apartment number 3, because within thirty minutes she'll once again have the quite that she needs to complete her latest writing assignment.