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A story about writers block.

Submitted:Aug 15, 2012    Reads: 8    Comments: 2    Likes: 1   

Mark lay on his stomach, staring at his blank computer screen that sat idly on his bed almost smirking at him. It was quarter to five in the afternoon and rain was hammering pitifully against his grey, misty windows. He liked rain. Specifically, he liked how the shelter of his house can prevent the rain from making him wet, cold and irritable but still give him the peaceful sound and sense of energy the drops brought. He couldn't really put his finger on it, but rain always felt… electric. As if the rain was the source of his inspiration. This was why he was irritated. He did not feel inspired. Something was wrong.

He got up to make himself another cup of hot chocolate with honey to clear his head. He walked into the kitchen adjacent to his room; the kitchen tiles were cold against his bare feet. He put water in a kettle and allowed the water to boil as he sat on the counter top with his eyes closed; listening. He couldn't help but think how silly it was that such a simple thing like rain, boiling water or the smell of warm honey and chocolate could mean the difference between a master piece and something less artistic than the stains upon used toilet paper. A calm, clever mind with words at the fingertips can create words that could draw tears from a rock. An agitated mind with nothing important to say, however, can make a rock wish it could bang its head against its self in despair.

The kettle clicked and the water began to settle and Mark's eyes opened quickly. He hopped down from the counter and made his drink. The smooth liquid brought nothing except a sweet taste and a texture that made the roof of his mouth feel slimy.

"DAMN IT!" he raged. He hadn't written anything in a month and now he was getting desperate. People who read the stories he posted online were beginning to wonder if he was dead. He had to get some inspiration. He grabbed his jacket and went for a run. "With any luck, I'll find a man hanging from an oak tree with a noose around his neck. Pessimistic stories are brilliant." He wasn't convinced by his words. He thought pessimism is boring, pointless and repetitively depressing. What he meant to say was pessimism is easy to write about.

The water made his dark clothes stick to his pale skin. His puffy hair became flat like it was covered in lashings of hair gel. He still couldn't think straight. He envied writers like John Green who could pull metaphors out of thin air just like a magician could with a coin. God knows if he were here, he'd use the falling rain to make a point about mortality or the NHS or some other smart bullshit that Mark couldn't understand. Irritated, he sat on a bench under a porch and looked out over the damp cricket pitch.

There was nothing of interest in his life he could write about. The majority of people he knew who he considered friends were boring, Skyrim-obsessed nerds. If they knew of his stories, they would insist on being written about; portrayed as Russian gun experts who decapitated zombies and smoked cigars like it was their job. The last good romance Mark had happened years ago and Mark was too embarrassed to write about that. Suffice to say the song "One shot" by JLS will never sound the same again. Family wise, he didn't like his and writing was the thing he did to forget about school work.

Drenched and mud-covered he staggered home and wandered aimlessly into the bathroom. He stripped and got into the shower despite the fact that he just spent the entirety of the last half hour being passed on by clouds. Afterwards he returned to his computer. It remained, despite all of the pointless things he did since he last gazed at it, a wordless void in which not a single sentence had been written. A short time of shallow thought made him realise that he had no words; no ideas; no concepts to fill that void. He felt the despair escape him and he slammed the laptop shut and slouched on his; head resting inside is hands.

But as the tears streamed, so did the ideas. The block had raised letting loose an abundance of stories of love, hate, murders and thieves. Gunpowder and stardust seemed to drift around the room. Mark's ears were defend by the howls of wolfs and shattering glass. His fingers twitched with anticipation and he began to type furiously.


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