Blank Document

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Sit staring at a blank document for enough time and you might do regrettable things to break your writers block.

Submitted: April 12, 2016

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Submitted: April 12, 2016

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Blank document

 

Yes, I stare at blank documents and fantasize.

 It might the weirdest confession I have ever made, or it could be the only confession I have ever made.

 I write because I have no choice. I write because as my fingers bleed and the words weep from my soul like the tears that I hold back, I wish I was back in my dirty apartment in Houston, Texas staring at a blank document and trying to figure out what to write.

 The walls are red and pulsing, pushing in on my small sphere of existence with the finality of a decaying womb.

Standing in an empty parking lot, next to a cracked concrete trashcan, I can imagine how huge the universe is, far flung from the depth of hells to the ethereal promise of a sun drenched heaven. But then I crack open the bottle of vodka, sit down on the cement, light a cigarette and that world vanishes, constricts into the span of concrete between my tennis shoes. That one crack that has a piece of grass growing through it. Next to the worn area where something heavy was dragged or dropped. The gum scattered around the area in small shiny black patches.

Hammered drunk; but still sober enough to realize I am being taken away again. They come for me and my slurred speech and inebriated movements deter them as much as the grass in the crack by my feet stops traffic.  A red pillow case is dropped over my head and I am confined with my reeking breath and dizzy consciousness.

“Choices made,” I seem to hear my step father’s voice hissing the words beside me.

I grunt and thrash, not because I can achieve something, but rather because it is expected of a captive with a bag over his head. If I could muster a witty response, I would fling it at the beings next to me, but all that comes to me is, “I wish I had more vodka.”

The journey reaches its conclusion and I want to scream and laugh at the same time when they rip the bag off my head revealing my computer desk and chair crammed into the fleshy walled office that I write from. My face bounces off the keyboard as I am slammed into my chair and I feel the heat begin to rise. My fingers writhe of their own accord, Pavlovian response from hell I suppose, and I attack the keyboard with a fury. The heat diminishes fractionally and the red walls relax, but as I pause to admire my craftiness they return.  The phrasing, language, spelling, catharsis, plot twists, interior dialogue, foreshadowing, punctuation, allusion and endless simile’s disgorge from my hands and leave me shaken and cold. The walls gone, the heat vanished.

 I smile.

I click to a blank document and stare ardently as the heat rises and the walls reform. Strange this should be my craving. Once arch nemesis and now, forbidden love.

 The walls touch my elbows and a sob escapes my lips.

I pound the keyboard maniacally, only this time as I write, images form around me of my life and my failures. They are harder to push back. Sweat rivulets my pocked face and my back burns from my hunched position. The voices start as I knew they would and I scream wetly, never slowing, my fingers blurring and bleeding. The keyboard becomes red hot but the screen remains half full, always wanting more, demanding new type, pulling my soul from me, one pixelated bit at a time.

 The fantasy of the blank document fades…and I relive my biggest regret. The mad jingle of an ancient commercial ringing through my head, “What would you do for a Klondike bar?!”

 

“Let’s make a deal with the Devil!”

 “If I could be the best writer in the world, I would give him my soul in whatever form he wanted!”

 

 

The End

 


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