Writer’s Block

Hello boils and ghouls. Immortal Alexander here for a trip into the dark recesses of my imagination. Today’s short story “Writer’s Block” contains scenes of gore,  and violence. You’ve been warned. Enjoy!

Blank page.

Blank page, blank page, BLANK PAGE.

My eyes were enraged, burning holes in the repulsive thing that lay before me. A crisp sheet of off white paper. A canvas with no imagery to light the senses ablaze. No original thoughts.

NOTHING AT ALL!

Inspiration, that’s a laugh. Maybe if I just keep thinking INSPIRATION something will happen. A spark, a sliver of something original, anything. I squeeze my eyes shut with all of the force I can muster. The one vein above my right temple throbs and spasms violently until I think it may burst, nothing. I grab a fountain pen and stare at it maniacally. The instrument of doom or delight I thought quietly. I looked down at the page with flames in my eyes and vengeance in my heart.

I shut my eyes once again with the pen firmly grasped in my right hand and in a moment of absolute desperation I stab downward with great force almost snapping off the nib.

My eyes open. I hold up the accused instrument which is now dripping red and spattering thick droplets of crimson all over the page that is the bane of my existence. Drip, drip, drip. Thick plumb red droplets fall and explode on the page like napalm turning the whole world a sickening hue.

 

My pupils dilate and become deadlocked with the enemy. I put pen to paper and scribble furiously trying not to mash the tip to pieces before my first paragraph is complete. Scratch, slide, stabbing dots, and scrawled lines of discontent. I exhale the contents of my lungs and look down at my work with a grin of satisfaction. Then…I start to read.

The lamb climbs into the bedroom window, lunges forward, and stabs the pig in the throat with a butter knife. The pig squeals with fright at the sight of it’s own blood being spread on the sheets like freshly churned butter. The lamb admires it’s work as the pig fades from this world. The chicken will be next, and the cow. Then and only then will its breakfast be served. Hot and runny on its plate of justice!

What was this dribble? “The sight of its own blood being spread on the sheets like freshly churned butter.” Is this what happens when I let my mind flow and the pen takes over?

Hot garbage! That’s what this is.

I mean why did I use red ink? I don’t know why I even own red ink. I had stabbed through the paper seal of the inkwell like an idiot which makes re-dipping a difficult proposal to say the least. What a mess. There was red ink splattered all over the place from my incessant flicking whenever I moved to a new line. It was all over my hands, my white shirt, my pants, and I think some of it may have gotten into my hair.

The man at the shop said “this pen is special.” That “it once belonged to Edgar Allan Poe himself.” What a load of crap! The black paint on the wooden handle was flaking badly from age but it didn’t look special. The nib was in fairly good condition for a “antique.”The handle was mostly smooth except for a small engraving on the grip. A circle with a triangle in it that had tiny symbols on the tip of each point. It reminded of  an  arcane power circle from one of my many books on the occult.

The shopkeeper said “it holds great power.” That if I close my eyes and look for a story a vision will come to me and allow my hand to do the work with ease. Wealth, fame, fortune. All could be mine if I only believed in the power of the pen. If I had stuck around longer he probably would have sold me some magic beans too.

I stared at the stupid thing and grimaced. “What a piece of junk. I don’t believe in you. You hear me you ugly  lump of wood and metal. You’re worthless!”

Maybe it was my imagination, or maybe I was hallucinating after over twenty four hours of no sleep, but I could swear that for a brief moment I saw a slight glow coming from the tip of the pen .

I dropped it on the desk and rubbed my eyes to be sure I wasn’t seeing things. I probably smeared red ink all over my face in the process.

When I opened my eyes the pen was laying there motionless. No glow, just an old fountain pen with a red stained tip. With a swoop of my hand I snatched up the paper and crumpled it into a tight little ball and swished it right into the rubbish bin. Where it belongs. I grabbed a fresh sheet of paper from my black metal organizer and slapped it on the table.

“Now” I thought, “we will begin again with great vigor and enthusiasm.” I began by grabbing a random ball point pen from my mug of writing instruments and readied my hand. I  forced the bad energy outwards through my lungs and thought “I can do this.”

Just when I was feeling good about myself and ready to power through, there was the old fountain pen, staring at me, just below the fresh sheet of parchment. Call me strange but I swear I could feel its contempt for my choice of writing implements.

“Away with you. Your sight sickens me” I said snatching up the thing with my free hand and flinging it hard across the room.

I turned my attention back to the blank page, but something gave me pause. Strange, I never heard the pen hit the wall, or the floor. I turned my head slowly to the left and my eyes went wide. The pen, it was there, floating. The tip was pointing in my direction and glowing bright red. Before I could blink it lunged forward with great speed right into my neck piercing a main artery with explosive results.

Blood spurt everywhere splashing the walls and pouring down in large globs all over my body. I grabbed the wounded area trying to stop the rivers of crimson from spilling out but it was too late.

The pen slid itself out of my neck and flew to the page.

It began writing furiously ever so often flying back into my neck to refill before returning back to the page. I held back as much of my life blood as I could to prevent it from splashing on my recently cleaned carpet. The funny thing was, as dire as my situation was, I could not help but read as the accursed pen wrote.

To my surprise the story it was writing was actually quite wonderful. Truly brilliant work! Just as the shopkeeper said it would. I read as much as I could before it all went black. I guess I should have asked for the instructions.

The End

Images By: Immortal Alexander

Thank you guys for reading my story and pop over to Twitter and let me know if you’ve ever felt this betrayed by a blank page before. I’m @HtvImmortal