Prison of Writing

A version of hell.

     This blank page seems more daunting than a four-foot thick wall of steel.

     Words are supposed to be easy for us journalists, and generally, the entirety of the English language is at my beck and call.  Not tonight though. How does a man start to write down his thoughts when he has doubts about his own sanity?  My senses are failing me, and I have no explanation for anything.  I have no idea where I am, nor what time of day it is.  Just that voice coming from the intercom speaker embedded in the wall with that one cold word every time I wake.

     “Write.”

     No more orders are given, no further message spoken.  Hell, there’s not even a commission of what to write.  I have no clue why I’m here or for how long I’ll remain here.

     Maybe I should start by describing my location, though that task will be unmercifully brief.

     Four walls of flat grey cinder blocks form a room that’s maybe seven feet by seven.  Cold black linoleum covers the floor, with a pillow and blanket tossed rudely in the corner.  A white ceiling adds the final touch to the spectrum.  A black dome glowers from the center of it, like an all-seeing eye.  It’s obviously a camera.  A small steel table barely worthy of being called a desk is bolted to the floor against one wall.  On top of that is a typewriter, bolted to the desk, with stacks of paper alongside it.  On the opposite wall is a heavy steel door. It’s blank, except for a slot at the bottom where a plate of bread and saucer of water enter once in a while.  It never comes in any sort of pattern.

     I know, because I’ve counted the seconds between their comings.

     At first I yelled, like anyone would do. Futility’s very definition.  Nobody has answered of course.  Next I tried finding some way, any way, to escape.  There is none.  The door is immoveable.  The slot slides side to side from outside.  I’ve slept twenty-six times since I’ve been here, and twenty-six times has my one order been repeated.

     “Write.”

     I cursed my captor, whoever it is.  I know they see and hear me.  They’re as unresponsive as the walls.  I begged for my freedom.  Nothing has been given.

     I can’t write anymore, I don’t want to.

 

*    *    *

 

     I paced.  I screamed.  I pleaded.  All actions repeated.  Always in vain.  Eventually I fell asleep.

     “Write.”

     I have no words to write!  How is any writer supposed to have any inspiration in such blank surroundings, damn it?

     I need a cig.

     But of course there’s none to be had.  Nothing but bread, water, and paper.  Oh yeah, and the buzzing of the fluorescent lights.  That incessant, omnipresent hum is doing absolutely no favors for my patience.

     I suppose I could write about where I am, how I’m feeling.  But wait, I already am.  It would be useless to write it in poetry, it’d just be another cliché of what many writers portray emptiness as.  I may be going insane bit by bit, but I’m above writing bullshit like that.

     Maybe I should write down anything I can remember before this, it may give me a clue about what happened, why I’m here.

     My name is… okay, that’s not coming to me.  S**t.

     I’m a… I think I’m a journalist.  I’m supposed to write.  I wrote before I was in here, that much I’m sure of.  I recall writing for a newspaper, it was… blank.  I don’t know.  I don’t f*****g know.

     Where am I from?  Do I have a family?  What kind of car do I drive?

     Nothing is coming back, I need to get off this stupid typewriter and focus on remembering.  F**k the orders to write.

 

*    *    *

 

     “Write.”

     I wasn’t even aware I’d fallen asleep.  Bread and water were brought to me twice before then.  Still no idea of… well, anything about myself.  They must have done something to me.  That’s the only explanation.

     You know what? F**k these individuals.  They want me to write, to hell with this.  These are the last words I’ll write for my captors.  You give me nothing but a prison-like subsistence and a word.

I’ll give you no more of mine.

 

*    *    *

 

     After that last installment I ripped the sheets of paper to shreds, littered them all over the floor.  Turned it white with slaughtered stationery.

     Later, I was awoken not by a word, but by a light.  It burned so bright I thought I was struck blind.  I never thought that light could be so powerful.  My retinas screamed in agony even with my eyes closed, and I fell hopelessly to my knees.  The sound of footsteps on the bits of paper reached my ears for a couple seconds, followed by a soft, dull thump.  Then the footsteps retreated, and the light disappeared when the door slammed shut.  Finality.  Back to solitude in this prison.

     I wish I’d tried to run when I had the chance.  But that light incapacitated me completely.

     It took what felt like an eternity but my sight came back.  The first thing I noticed was more paper.  I wrote down what happened, just to get it out of my head.  Now we’re at the current moment again.  Still no further orders.  I know what they would say.

     “Write.”

     I can’t do this any longer.  I’d rather take my chances with death, or possibly escape, if they’ll open another opportunity.

This is the end.

Reviews

[KatharineDishron]

so good and exactly how I feel tonight!!!!!! frustrating isn't it? writing is my obsession, my purpose. but, sometimes for whatever reason, it seems like torture. my soul can't handle it. society has taught my generation (im 24) to space out, to absorb and not to emit. im distracted by a million things, LITERALLY, because of the vast content of the internet. Infinite, really. i feel depressed. the writing i'm working on isn't depressing. okay, i'll delete that then. i'm happy. the writing im working on is very depressing. okay, i'll start over. kfnskgneknjkrgn

let me know if you find a solution? kthx

[Angie Diane♥&hea..]

I enjoyed the read. I hate writers block. It kills me to know end, but there are those moments when you have something and then it disappears. I hate when writers block plagues me. I think everyone does. I hate the frustration it brings, but this was amazing. Thank you for sharing. :3

[John Stussy]

Thanks, I'm glad you liked this story. It was interesting to write haha.

[Angie Diane♥♥]

Haha I bet. :3

[That_Girl]

Writer's block in the highest degree eh? Really awesome! The detail is superb and the writer, though a bit delusional, has a great personality... attitude. Nice job!

[John Stussy]

Glad you liked this one, wanted to add that delusional edge to emphasize his panic, you know? :)

[That_Girl]

Mmhmm I think you did it quite well! :)

[John Stussy]

Thanks Avy. :)

[nicolo]

In the end, words are all that we are... A very, very dead poet once said.
Looks like a writer's camp that went wrong. Very imaginative. Was this a dream of yours? Or this is what happens everytime you are in your room?

[Kevin Anthony]

You should write a novel.
I'm serious.

[Pierre Aberrance]

A very good story, and I especially like sentence "Turned it white with slaughtered stationery." I'll have to check out more of your writing when I get the chance.

[Emily B]

it's how i feel at the moment, no orders, no one watching, but no words either

and I remember that some great poet said "for the depths, of what use is language?"