"The only redeeming quality about this story is that the good die and the stupid suffer." ~ Anonymous
We scheme and connive
Always looking for
Always planning for
The next beat
The way it all unfolds
Beneath pen
Key
Thumb
Somehow we have deemed
That we
And only we
Can tell this story
Can shape the land
Call it what you want
Hubris, I think is most fitting
Yet we are still here
Still so sure that this is right
That we still will write
What the world needs
What will effect the most
And what will be remembered
Furious boiling rage
Fists clenched and facing typewriter
“Damned words come out!”
Voice ripping static aside
Grasps sides with pale gloves
Set leaning down close to keys
“I’ll find you in there
You’ll come out
If I have to come in there myself
And drag you out screaming!”
The static then actually cleared
Teeth lining up on screen
Sharp toothed and dripping bile
Spreading slow and growling
The typewriter sits silent and stoic
Frustrated groan twirl away arms up in defeat
“Fine then!”
He grabs his port
Tipping back onto screen
Where teeth are open
Poured into
Past screen
Into mouth?
Or something close
Quint groans as he sets it down
Rubbing a glove over screen
“Give me SOMETHING!”
He bellows slapping the desk
Typewriter dings
As it reaches the end
“…
You’re mocking me aren’t you…”
He grumbles
Slouching back in his chair
He idly fiddles with a key
Gloved finger
Tracing its edge
Then depresses
Then another
Another key
And more
“I told you I’d get it out of you!”
He cries triumphantly
Fingers flying freely
And back we pull away and into the dark
Towering over typewriter
Quint ponders his protagonists plight
His suit is crisp clean and carmine
Cuff links lit by dull candlelight
Slowly he surfs his channels of thought
Hand clicks dial over one to two
Static stays but something does form
A bloodied and battered sword
Yes this is it the final piece!
Quint types rapidly
Rapturous plot
His head tilts back as he laughs
Voice crackling over airwaves
As he reaches the end and sets it aside
He rubs white gloves hands over face
Cathode Ray screen
A finger touches letters he knows very well
Worn and incomplete now only read
“Pan____ic”
A sigh rumbles static
And he fingers the switch
Flicks up
Shuts off
And sleeps for the day
A young man stood
His head to a wall
Pulled back
Swung forward
And crushing his skull
Passerby cried
At this pitiful whelp
Folks tried to stop
To impede
Hell, just to help
He just smiled at them
His teeth a grisly mess
“Oh don’t mind me
I’m just an artist
And this painting, my best”
He mused “just a bit more
Then it will be done
Wait no
Not quite
I’ll erase this last one”
Featured image source: http://davidmoody.net/2014/04/18/hitting-head-brick-wall/#.XAVnORZMGEc
You’re working on your next story. The inspiration struck you part way through your last story. Your stories never end. Your laptop open on twelve projects all labeled “WIP.”
The glare of the page hurts your eyes. The idea of what to write hurts your head. Your hands ache from hours of writing. your fingers nearly blistered. Why is the page still blank?
Eureka! The breakthrough needed to conclude that manuscript you started years ago! Now… where was it? Where did you keep it? Was it on the flash drive? External hard drive? Gigabytes of data, but not the few kilos you require.
Ah the old story blog you started in college… maybe you should start it again. Passwords spill out of you and all are wrong. You were clever and made the password relate to the story. Too clever. The email is the same. A simple quip no one would see and you have forgotten.
A publication’s email “submission requested” and the promise of exposure… yet no payment. You eat your cold ramen. It tastes like exposure, completely without value.
You scoff as you read an excerpt from a new e-book. You can write better than that! So why are they published and you aren’t? Your twenty unfinished novels eye you sadly like puppies in a pound from their folder on your desktop.
A rejection letter in the mail. You set it with the others. A few more and your paper craft castle will be complete. You jokingly refer to it as your “house of leaves.” No one gets the joke.
Just keep writing. You get better with practice. We don’t look back on where we came from. Those were dark times. Just keep writing.
You’re depressed because you haven’t written. You don’t have the energy to lift your hand, let alone create. You berate yourself for not writing. This makes you more depressed. The cycle continues, every day the same.
You just need a cup of coffee to start your day. After this cup you’ll begin. One more then it can really get under way. A few more sips and you’ll have it. The cups are a mountain range lining your sink.
You finished. Finally. It’s over. You look back and instantly are filled with the unstoppable urge to delete everything. It is an affront to god and should not see the light of day.
She looms above them
The huddled masses
A scythe of crimson blood
Poised and ready to strike
The Creator can do naught
But trust in her measured cuts
See how she leaves whole lives
Towns and people
Bathed in red
And all but forgotten
Only their Creator knows their names
But in the end
After the death
After the loss
It is made more perfect
More flowing and paced
When the editor finishes
Her culling of pages
If your character plagiarizes from a book that doesn’t exist about a town that’s not entirely real from a newspaper column that no one wrote, is it still plagiarism?
…
I feel like the answer is yes…
Half the battle is choosing the words
Pruning back the unnecessary, superfluous, and extraneous lexicon
Not mixing metaphors
Like water and oil
Or steak and tea
Keeping consistency
And
Flow
Between lines
Perfectly balanced scales
Not a letter out of plac e
And always making sure to double check speling
But no wait
What to even write about
Over?
The complex
Distilled to but a few lines
The horrific
Contained in my meager words
The profound
Found impotent in my form
Guess
The best
I’ve found
Worry only
About yourself
And let the words fall
As they may
Dried Ink Ribbon 