A Tale about an Author facing a writer's block.

The walk down the alley of inspiration is a dead end. The search for a flare of inspiration seldom produces quick results and an undying thought that a great one would turn the table. But the real gem is determination and a tower of motivation that enables to put pen to paper.

Sophia knew this. She has been practicing this routine ever since she began writing. She sat on her writing desk overlooking the window. The field, distant mountains, the clambered clouds, the birds, the color – nature presented her this beautiful landscape to inspire and motivate her with new ideas. Still, the ink refused to flow across the paper. Her thoughts seemed to entangle her. There was a drought of ideas.

She looked for inspiration in all the things, which she could put her hands-on, but in vain. She was disappointed to be in this state. Nature joined her in her gloominess; the golden color was replaced with a grayish agony. The blank paper in front of her was getting socked with saltwater. The blue ink from the nib of the pen smeared across the paper as if opening a portal to gulp her into darkness. This was the state of her mind – total darkness, total silence.

Sophia rested her heavy head onto the table.

*

He was pacing through the field with all his might. His short legs refused to cover long strides. The plants restricted his view to the path ahead as if his eyes were covered by a black cloth. The sun was settling in, with the saffron color spread across the horizon. It depicted a picture of the end of life. 

He stopped at the sight of the massacre. He panted and searched the pile of bodies spread across the path. The blood flowed like distributaries from a river. People were running across; he couldn’t hear people screaming and crying looking out for their loved one, who was now nothing but unmovable objects.

His heart was pounding and his voice couldn’t find its way outside when he saw that familiar face. The remnants of the body were scattered and only the face survived. God permitted it so that he could at least see his father one last time.

His knee entered the ground. His tiny hands held his father’s head to his chest. He looked up at the saffron sky and his voice found its way to the outside world – he screamed at the top of his lungs. He scripted in his conscience, to not let anyone have his father’s fate.

*

The landscape color did not justify the disturbance taking place under its shroud. The white snow was smeared with red paint. The excruciating cold temperature did not subdue the spirits of the people fighting.

The thudding sounds were hammering over his ears. His eyes wriggled to notice several soldiers firing while taking cover. Something blasted off in the distance and chunks of body parts flew in the air and with it came cries of pain and suffering.

The sweat was dripping down his spine. The confusion, adrenaline, anger was flowing through him. This was his first face-off with the enemy. But there was an emotion which was missing: fear. He did not fear of getting shot by an enemy bullet. This is what he had signed in for. There was only one sentiment in his mind – to protect his motherland.

He lowered his helmet, held firmly the gun in his hand, and pulled the trigger.

The white sky looked down at the melancholic air.

*

He looked up at the enormous lush green shades of canopies looming over him. The leaves stuttered and floated like the angels clapping their hands gazing at him. The sun rays kissed his face as if God blessed him from the clouds. The light from the heavens covered his face, with the warmth of love and affection. This feeling engulfed his whole body. The soprano sounds of birds played through his ears. They were relinquishing the moment of happiness. The gushes of wind touched his body and lifted him to a bubble of eternal sanctity.

The water flowed through the pockets of the forest. It brushed the pebbles and carried with it positive energy. It created a gushing sound while it traversed through the aisle of tranquillity.

He looked at his severed limbs. The price of protecting his country. He looked at his life and a smile was stitched to his face. The tears of happiness trickled down his wrinkled skin like water droplets dropping from the surface of a glass. He was content with the life he had lived for this country.

He moved with his wheelchair into the green cover of pride.

*

Sophia took a deep sigh when she jolted back to reality. Her eyes took time to get accustomed to the very surrounding. She took a journey to the magical life of a warrior/a fighter/a soldier. She now knew what to write down.

She just needed to stitch the saffron, white, and the green elements together and add to it her blue embroidery.


Submitted: June 22, 2020

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