Words as Fish, for englishgentabouttown

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
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Submitted: August 05, 2011

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Submitted: August 05, 2011

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I spend days struggling at my bloody typewriter. I bang out sentence after damned sentence, but none of them seem to make sense. I get up from my chair often, taking long draws on cigarettes, and down yet another cup of coffee. None of my works are as great as they should be, nowhere near what they bloody well could be.

My stanzas torture me, along with my lines, and my sentences. They taunt me with their words. My own creations, laughing at my anguish. The buggers sit there, day after day, in silence in the world, yet alive and loud inside of my skull. I can’t rid myself of their incessant noise, the ever present buzzing of my own failure to creating a masterpiece. My own creations, they will drive me to the brink of madness.

They control my nights now as well, haunting me while I attempt to sleep. I toss and turn in my bed, my brain foggy and unsettled. It as if my typewriter mocks me while I lay in bed.
“Bloody fool,” he seems to laugh at me in my dreams, “you think you posses the abilities to control what I want to say? You are very well disturbed good sir. Very well disturbed.”

I sleep but little, my nights are fitful. I sit for hours, staring at the blank pages that sit before me. The words that swim through my head like dozens of tiny fish will not swim onto the pages. My fingers are like nets, trapping them, and holding them back from what they should be. I spend many nights awake, trudging through the streets of London in the dead of night, cigarette hanging from my mouth. I fear these words shall be the death of me.

For englishgentabouttown


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