The Writer's Block

A short story I wrote for a competition in my school. A Horrible storm is approaching, and a strange power chooses James as it's wielder.

The Writer’s Block

     Honestly, I found it increasingly absurd at this point. I sat here at my desk in my tiny excuse for a bedroom, glued to my laptop screen for about eight painstaking hours now. Eight hours of eerie, early morning sounds. Eight hours of strained yawns and grumbling stomach complaints. Eight whole hours of coffee, scattered thought and a desperate search for inspiration which I believed now to be in vain. I had a serious case of writer’s block, but I had no idea what outcome that would soon create in my life and that of those kept in my company.

     I sighed. One huge, dreary sigh which embodied within it all the fears I had reserved about this moment the day prior. I sat slouched in my seat, defeated and devoid of even slightest remnants of creative thought. Me, who would usually perpetuate fantastical, imaginative thought, like the gushing waters of an open flood gate, was now surely dry. Unfortunately for me, the deadline for submission for my school library’s short story competition was this exact morning. In finality, and reluctantly so, I shut down my laptop, packed a bag for school, and made quick my leave as I had prolonged my suffering to six o’clock in the morning before I gave in. So I donned my school’s uniform, my blue shirt, khaki pants and black as molasses sneakers, and I made my journey to the Royal College.

     It was imminent. I could simply sense its impending nature in the air, it was a stinking miasma…impossible to ignore and highly unpleasant. I knew as I strode my way into the college gates, that my “friend”, who was also a skilled writer, would soon intercept me with condescending slurs and contemptuous criticism. Yes, I was certain that Marcus, who studiously submitted his short story a week earlier, would have endless comments to make to me. I climbed the steps to my form room, weary of my surroundings, and claimed my seat at the very back of the class. After surveying the room for my friend and realizing he wasn’t there, my fore head met the desk in front of me, my hands curled around my head and I was set on sleeping until the bell rang. Until, “PAT!”, heavy hands slammed down on my shoulders, making me start suddenly as I rose up in a disgusted grimace. Only to see the very person I was trying to avoid, Marcus. Marcus with his curly hair and broad, muscular arms stood there expectantly, as if I was the harbinger of some miraculous event he had so long awaited.

     “What are you staring at?”, I inquired, slightly annoyed at his expectancy, but in a gruff imposing voice he replied:

     “Just the future best-selling author, James Wilson himself…or don’t tell me you didn’t finish your story?”

     “Some things happened Marcus, stuff got in the way, I coul…”

     “Couldn’t what? Come up with a better excuse than ‘some things’ or ‘stuff’? Oh please James, you always do that, incompetent as always.”

     “And who are you to say that? My father? My teacher? You always belittle me about this. If I want to write then I will, you don’t need to rush me or watch over me!”

     “All I’m saying is I expected some real competition this time around. Competition from a good writer for once. Competition from you.”

     At that startling comment, my voice was utterly purged from my lungs, and I stood there, my feet plastered to the floor in awkward, extended silence for a few minutes. I couldn’t comprehend what had just transpired. Of course Marcus was being his arrogant self, but this time he de-valued the other writers. He de-valued them to say that I was the person he wanted to go up against. This new persona he wore took me by surprise. The one moment in our friendship and rivalry that he actually acknowledged me, I was unable to deliver, and this fact impacted me deeply.

     “Nothing to say. Typical.”, and with that, his final expression of disappointment in me, Marcus dismissed my very existence.

     At the arrival of break period, the sky was now a myriad of dark, ominous clouds that could’ve foreboded anything from a mild storm to a violent tempest. As I made my journey to my schools library, hoping for an audience with the head librarian, I saw expressions of worry and even fear from my fellow students. Every now and then, someone would look up at the sky and I could see the colour drain from their face, then they would try to nonchalantly go about their business, but you could just sense an insistent worry in their movements. I ignored all this as I approached the library’s entrance, as I stared down the barrel of a gun, because this was to be the death of me. I was just about prepared to beg. Beg for another day, a second chance, I was willing to swallow my pride and endure whatever scolding the head librarian could deliver, if it meant a chance to display my abilities. I held the dented iron doorknob, twisted, and entered the belly of the beast. A beast that probably existed around the eighteenth century or so, because everything my eyes beheld in the library looked antique and vintage.

     As I entered I was greeted by worn down books on African, Indian, Chinese and Syrian history, in the ‘cultural section’ to the left but I went right. Then I met up with various newspapers, magazines and posters at the ‘current events section’, which was snuggled next to the magazines and flyers about different colleges and institutions in the ‘information on further education’ section. Neither of which interested me. As I fought my way through the shelves and sections of marvelous wisdom and knowledge, of books that had been utilized by scholars of all paths of academia, I felt my heart grow heavy. I knew, that whatever Ms. Rowan had to say about my request wouldn’t sit well with me and as I caught a glimpse of the young woman with a slim, precise build in a grey lounge suit I knew I would soon find out.

     “Um…Ms? I was wondering whether you could, maybe let me hand in my short story tomorrow. I promise I won’t ever be late again, plea…”, she simply raised her hand in a subtle gesture that I understood: ‘Hold your tongue’.

     “When was the deadline Wilson.” She asked with her chin held high and shoulders pushed back.

     “Today Ms. Rowan, bu…”

     “Right. Today Wilson. There is no but in the matter. You never seem to understand rules and regulation, always acting like you’re an exception to the rule, like you’re some kind of recusant!” just as she delivered the final blow, it commenced. The deluge began violently pounding on the roof of the library building, vengefully breaking from its longstanding reprieve. At this point, I ended our conversation, my scolding, abruptly as I was now on the heels of my limit. First Marcus, now Ms. Rowan, and neither of them could even fathom the frustration that comes with writer’s block. They only assigned blame to me.

     Utterly consumed by my frustration, I stormed out of the library into the storm outside of it, running now, in the rain to my form class. Then “smack!”, something crashed into my head and for a moment I thought God Himself was disappointed in me, then I realized it was a pen. A pen that seemed to fall from the sky and materialize from the heavens themselves. I retrieved it, returned to my class drenched and was injected with a jolt of shock as I read the words that I had only just realized where there:

“He who has the block is worthy to carve the fate of man.”

     “BOOM!”, my ears rang as thunder rattled the nerves of everyone around me and threatened impending danger. As my classmates ran about wearing worried mugs, I held the enigmatic pen, trembling both from the storm and the chill this pen gave me all of a sudden. It felt peaceful and chaotic at the same, conducted heat and coldness…somehow, as I held it. “SHREEEK!”, and the glass windows submitted to the shear destructive force of the angered atmosphere of the storm. Splinters and shattered glass everywhere. Blood. Then I saw it.

     The blood of my friend, Marcus, as he laid there, giving berth to the huge segment of pointed glass which had sailed right into his stomach. I felt nauseous. I felt weak. I felt all my senses leaving me as the unforgiving salty liquid begged emancipation from my eyes. Then, I felt the pen and its words echoed and ricocheted about my mind.

“He who has the block is worthy to carve the fate of man...” and so I wrote. I wrote of sunny skies and relaxing winds. I wrote of a better day. While everyone around me had their composure shattered like the glass…I wrote. I wrote about handing in my short story. I wrote about being a better student and a competent person. Then just before my hand trembled to a halt I wrote about a friend who didn’t die and whose last thought of me wasn't disgust. Then, I closed my eyes and the next set of events were surreal.

     Marcus, dead a few moments ago, clasped his hands on my shoulders like he usually does, and began, inadvertently explaining the pens powers.

     “Why are you writing bro? You already won the short story competition,” I had no knowledge of that. “You couldn't be studying because you’re on top of our class” Me? Studious? “And it’s a beautiful day out, just look.”

And he wasn't lying. The glass was back to normal, everyone was fine and the general mood reverted to a peaceful one. I could hardly contain my bafflement, my friend was just dead, but whatever was written with the pen came into existence.

     “Hey, you look like something’s bothering you, why don’t we go get something by the canteen before lunch is over? Take your mind off things.” And so I did. I went with him. That night though, I wrote. I took the pen and I wrote of the day I couldn't hand in a short story because of writer’s block. I wrote of the mysterious pen and the tempestuous storm. I wrote of the death and resurrection of my friend. I wrote about it all, and relieved it all, over and over again, so that I could always remember this experience, as the pen forever kisses the page, in endless passionate romance. My writer’s block was broken.

Author's Note

The Plot isn't my best work, as i was more focused on use of language. This story was less about what was there and more about how it was presented. However when reviewing the language you could, if you feel the need, mention what about the plot could be more engaging