/ short story

Writers block

This is a short story. it is about a writer struggling to come up with new ideas. And what happens as a result...

The whiteness of the paper on the writer's clean, crisp A4 pad, offered no comfort. Nor did the the empty page on his computer screen. But what was worse than that, much worse, was the empty void in his head. The void that should have filled with words.

He glanced around the room, it's supposed modern soft lighting now looked ethereal rather than trendy. The low lighting caused the mahogany furniture to look like it had lost it's grain. Instead, it just looked dark And and mocking. Even the bookcase, it's shelves filled with inspiration on a different day, now just looked on disapprovingly.

He rested his head on his arms on the only bit of free space on his desk. The darkness behind his closed eyes felt comforting. He decided to stay a while…

Then a voice woke him.

"No writing this evening? Very poor, or you will be. Writers who don't write stay poor."

He opened his eyes, rubbed them and then rolled his shoulders to remove the sleep induced stiffness. Had someone spoken? He glanced around the room. Of course not, he was alone in the house. There was just the sound of the wind blowing in, carrying the smell of the sea from the cliffs at the end of the garden.

"I think you should WORK! Or you will suffer the consequences…"

He'd had enough. Trying to sound assertive, he called out: "Who said that?"

He tried to keep the fear out of his voice. The attempt was failing, he knew it.

"Oh, just your friendly editor. Your favourite person in the whole world. Or I should be."

The voice that answered had a deep timbre. It seemed to be coming from within him, but at the same time from the corner of the room, where the shadows lingered deep enough to make things indistinct.

The malevolent voice boomed again.

"Now write, you miserable excuse for a writer. Fill the page…"

This was crazy. Who was he talking to? He figured it was a dream. Until the sudden movement from the corner of his eye. And then the intense pain in his left hand.

It had been resting palm down on the desk. Now, it had a HB pencil jammed in it. Worse still, his own right hand was clamped around the pencil.

He yelped, and tried to pull the pencil out. He succeeded, but then, of it's own volition, his arm drove down again, stabbing harder. The pencil snapped. The tiny red dot the sharpened lead left was an inappropriate reference for the level of pain.

He lurched back in the chair, rubbing the painful area. Staring at his right hand.

"Go away! I don't who…"

"Yes, you do, I just told you. Now WRITE. Write the words, you hopeless entity."

The voice seemed much closer now. Almost in his ear. He shot a glance to the left of his desk, and in the deep shadow cast the floor lamp he thought he saw a pair of eyes. And a boney face, with deep lesions running down the cheeks. The eyes glowed with a crimson tint. There was a hideous grimace for a facial expression too.

"I can't write, I'm struggling for ideas…"

A sudden flurry of movement, a blast of cold air. And burning pain. This time in his face. Just below the eye socket, left side. He screamed, and fell forward towards his desk trying to move from the chair, and yanking the pencil from his face. Again, it was his own hand that had selected a pencil from the container on his desk. Then jammed it in his own face.

He couldn't leave the chair though.

Try as he might, there was no escaping. He looked with horror at the bloody pencil, the lead gleaming and sharp through the wetness of blood. His blood.

"Okay, okay. I'll write. Please, stop with the pencils…"

There was a mocking snort. This time from behind him. He dare not look round though.

"Go on then, let's see it. You'd better make it good. Or suffer the consequences."

The voice, still behind him, intoned absolute malevolence. He felt an icy chill run through his body like standing in a cold store without proper protective clothing.

With a shaking hand, he shook the mouse to wake up his computer. He wasn't sure if he actually screamed or not.

His computer desktop wallpaper said:

Inspirational tips for writers: "There's no such thing as writers block."