Breaking the Barricade

Breaking the Barricade

Personal Narrative                Savannah Graham

The brick wall stretched endlessly from left to right. The dark clouds flash and the promise of thunder screamed in my head. The slimy wall, thick will muck, appeared to crumble slightly every so often but the bricks never gave. I take note of every chink, every crevice within the cold, blackness of the barricade, blocking my path. I creep ever so slowly towards it, as if it were a sleeping bear. I’m unsure, scared, and alone.  Indents, finely carved within one of the bricks catch my eye. This block, much darker than the rest, seemed to glow in anticipation, awaiting my inspection. I wipe the brick the back of sleeve and brush my strawberry blonde hair behind me ears and out of my face. I step back a little and clutch the pen at my side, the only thing I have with me, for encouragement.  There printed in neatly in a sickly green, I made out the words “Writer Block.”  The words I feared the most. I fall back gasping for air, my world becomes a swirling pool of darkness, and I awaken from my nightmare.

I’m laying face-first on the keyboard, with no-doubt a strange imprint over my cheek. I pull up my writer’s page, no reviews.

“Dang,” I mutter under my breath. I wipe the sweat from my forehead. Angry, and confused, I stumble into the kitchen. I flip the light-switch and instantly shield my eyes from the florescent light. It’s still dark outside. I turn and look at the clock. Oh God, its 4:30! I slam my head against the counter.

“What the flippin’ fruit snacks!” I loudly exclaim. I feel this strange awkwardness in the quiet, as if someone was listening, but wasn’t responding. I walk back to the computer, The screen pops up and I curse under my breath, my paper is due tomorrow and I haven’t got any more done than, THE.  Where to go from there? Closing my eyes got me nothing but dreams filled with the horror of this terrible fate. Writers blocked had entirely consumed me from the moment I received my homework. I have absolutely no clue what to write about. What interesting things have I ever done?  I’ve snorkeled in the Great Barrier Reef, seen the Sidney Olympic Park, Visited with aboriginals and sang in sacred caves. Nope, nothing. I have absolutely nothing.

Suddenly, I gave not a single care what time it was.

“Mom!” I yelled. Seconds later I hear the frantic rustling of my mother’s feet on the stairs.

“What….. Is it…. Hon,” she exclaimed between breaths, “Are you alright?”  

“No, I’m going to die!” My inner drama queen had kicked in and I threw myself onto the couch.

“Why? Are you sick!?” She instinctively placed her hand to my forehead.  I rolled my eyes and brushed her hand away from me.

“No mom. I just can’t think of what to write about.” She stepped back and crossed her arms, the impatience was not being very well concealed.

“That’s why you woke me up?” her eyes were red and puffy and I noticed that her dark brown curls were frantically heaped into a bun on the top of her head. She hadn’t take her sweet time about getting down here.

“I’m sorry Ma, but this paper is due tomorrow…correction, today, and I need to figure out something, and fast.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, You should have had plenty of time to do this and if your just now getting to it than that is your fault, no one else’s.” With those final words she turned and headed back up to bed, only stopping once to remind me that I should “Go to bed,” because “You shouldn’t be up this late anyway.”

I sigh, and position comfortably on the cheap polyester couch. I wipe the crusty mascara residue from my gray-blue eyes and, realizing that I probably look disastrously terrible, I reach for the mirror. I take note of my fragile features and my vampire pale skin, almost glowing in the dim light.  Ugh! And the freckles, cascading over my cheeks and nose, they seemed to be growing more and more distinct every day. I couldn’t stand them.

5:00 a.m.

Still, I have absolutely nothing. It is driving me insane at this point. My mom’s voice keeps echoing in my head, “Just write, who cares how good it is, if don’t finish it you’ll fail, and I’m not having that!” and I knew she was right, but I am a writer, I do this for more than just grades, or fun, I enjoy it, and it means more to me than anyone could understand, I just have to make this perfect!

Endless torture is what this assignment is. How can I truly make progress out of nothing? how can I make a story out of nothing, a life, out of nothing? Well, I can. That’s what writer’s do, right? We turn a little bit of nothing, just a tiny idea, and make it more than that; we turn it into something we can relate to, that other people can relate to, and something that can be real. It was in my head. I finally had it. So I started off.  The infinite possibilities played out in my head, it was remotely a personal narrative, but I changed it up. Suddenly I’m a knight in pure silver armor riding through the battlefield facing my biggest fears, the demons and spirits haunt the fields, my army marches forward prepared to fight, each one representing a different piece of me. The monsters hold their ground, unafraid. The smallest of the soldiers in my army, Bravery and Aggression, leap towards the vicious beasts, but they are so easily taken out, two parts of my 15, they just couldn’t make it on their own. I squint in the sunlight, trying to make out the beasts. One tall and scaly, and remarkably resembling those guys at school, laughing priggishly as I walk by, tripping me in classes, mocking who I am. The second; thick with muscle and gray and gold. It flashes and a pool of dark clouds huddle around it, thunders crashes against the seams of my mind. I shiver in terror, and force myself to look upon the third. This one is different. This monster is small, smaller than any human even, that I have ever seen before. She is lower than the dirt on the earth. Her small familiar face, that straight blonde hair, those teary gray-blue eyes. This creature I fear the most of all the beasts before me. This monster is my reflection. Me the way I truly see myself; A different person, a different everything.

I remember back to when I saw myself in the mirror. That is where I initially got this story, which is where I realized, that the way we see ourselves is different than how we are truly, visibly seen. Everyone, in some form or manner, fears themselves. Some more than others, but all fear the truth, all fear the reality of who they really are, but how they see themselves, is never truly that, it is only what they make themselves into. They form and change under the pressure of their own subconscious mind, And for what? No one knows, but we all battle our greatest fears. And for some of us, they never go away.

     

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

This is a strange personal narritve being written within a personal narrative lmao

Reviews

[Poetic Beauty]

writer's block is truly terrible. I hate it when I have an idea and just can't write about it or my muse just won't wake up. This is a great story about having writer's block and trying to write a paper for school. You have made a funny and dramatic story out of having writer's block. Great detail and you showed the frustration and urgency at getting the paper done.

[Allison]

Hahaha, I remember this from school :) I love this!
Amazing :)

-Pokie

[Zeitgeist Manifesto]

Man..I LOVED this story. I felt like I was there with you the entire time.
It would make a great short film. I could see it all perfectly.

[salvador (camuel choisu..]

i love it my lady it is amazing every thing was basically in first person piont of view and well i agree with the last paragraph we see each other different than we are seen by others.