On Light

He dipped the pen into the ink jar and wrote a few lines. The lonely candle cast flickering shadows. His head leaned toward the paper. His eyes strained to read his writing amidst the dancing shadows and weak light.
He smiled as he looked down at his work. He picked up the last blank page. After three months and countless notes, he sat completing his first chapter. His breath quickened, and his pen danced on the paper. He reached for his mug with his free hand. He drank the last drop of his fourth cup of coffee. He began putting his mug down, but his excited hand bumped against the candle stand. The candle fell to the floor. His hands jerked in reaction. His skin grew cold and white. The candle went out, and he sat there in the dark. His skin regained its normal tone. He sighed deeply and let out a muffled grunt. He rose from the table gingerly. With outstretched arms, he advanced slowly towards his bed. He crawled under his covers. With a final deep breath, he tried to find some sleep with tosses and turns.
At his printing press, each day consisted of work for Henry. As he worked, he incessantly wrote out further aspirations and dreams. Between presses, he would transcribe down notes of locations, characters, and plots for his stories. He awoke at sunrise, and the press churned out newspapers until the sun set. He would then rush home to write before the sky grew dark.
His father’s house burned down after a candle set a drape aflame, and a friend’s house nearly burned down by a newly acquired gas lamp. Henry did not own a gas lamp, and he used candles sparingly. His hands shook under the ideas in his head. The paper suffered silly typos. Food and coffee stained his notes.
“I can’t continue to live like this,” said Henry with a sigh.
“And how are you living?” asked his friend. His smile never left his face. He gazed aimlessly into the sky. His hands always fiddled with something. He twirled a pencil in his hand.
Henry said, “I have all these ideas and stories I long to express about, but all the sunlight is spent at work.”
“It seems that darkness is the enemy of your ideas. You need safe, dependable light.”
“I suppose I could dream of that.” Henry joked.
Henry’s friend’s hand stopped with the pencil. His entire body stiffened, and his eyes stared at the glass of lemonade. Henry looked on for a few moments before interrupting the trance. “What’s got your fancy?”
“Just something I’ve been toying with recently.”
Both sat silent.
“Henry, it’s been a pleasure. I’ll stay in contact.”
“Yes indeed. Do take care, Thomas.”
They stood up and shook each other’s hand farewell.
Years passed. Thomas experimented, and Henry wrote piles of notes. One day Thomas ran up Henry’s front porch and pounded on the door.
“I’ve found the solution, Henry!” he said unable to stand still.
He reached into his pocket and brought out a hollow, glass, rain-drop-shaped gadget. “With this your stories can finally be written without the worry of fire or regard to the sun’s wishes. I call it a ‘lightbulb.’”
Six months passed. Henry knocked on Thomas’ door. Thomas opened the door.
“It’s finally written.”
“What?” asked Thomas.
“My first book.” From behind his back, Henry presented a leather-bound book. The title read, The Telegrapher and His Friend: The Beginnings of Thomas Edison.
“I feel like I already know this story,” said Thomas, with a chuckle.
Before going to bed, Henry shut off the electric lamp at his desk. He wrote no notes before he slept.