Gone Nowhere

A Story by Ted

Writer's block happens to the best, too.

  Gone Nowhere
“You’re going somewhere, Rye. Just remember where you came from.” Ryan Newsome shook the hand of his high school English teacher, as they tossed back and forth a wide grin. Ryan had to go somewhere, of course, and it certainly wasn’t down. He had earned every writing accolade, the praise of all his teachers, the respect of an audience. It was from here that Ryan would only go up, having three of his novels published, all with great success. He had immediately forgotten where he came from. To remember would be to hold onto a burden. It is after his great success that we find Ryan Newsome; sitting in front of his typewriter. Alone.

                       Ineptitude struck his face as he reali -

He wrenched the paper from the machine, forced it into the trash, and scowled with an incredible amount of force. He lit another cigarette; taking intense drags. He slouched staring at the paper. This had not been his first time being greeted by nothing. It was, however, the first time it had happened for one week straight. 47 ideas straight. 93 papers straight. He jerked back to movement, ashing his cigarette into the cluttered tray. He took one last draw and slammed it with the others. It had become a sick joke, played on him by a cloaked figure poking at his brain. That was all that could explain it.

                       His shawl of emptiness shrouded him from the light as h -

He nearly yanked the machine from the table. He didn’t care. “Screw the damn thing! Let it burn with my mind! Let it all burn!” It was now routine: crumpling his thoughts, cursing them, and lighting his cigarette. He looked back at his typewriter. It was in pain it was laughing so hard at him. He gave the machine the same scowl, turning back to the pile of papers. “I’ve been belittled to a can of empty papers. A can of s**t!” He stood up, as if threatening the pile, as if he would rough them up until he got his way. He stared at them, though all he could do was spit �" that did it. They only laughed along with the typewriter. He paced his room, which contained his table and typewriter and trash can. It also shelved all of his awards and published work. He stopped at the shelves, and pierced through his work �" as if it was a mirror that reflected a mocking picture of a younger, healthier man. He threw the cigarette butt on the floor and immediately forced another into his mouth. If he didn’t feel so absurd, he’d have two in his mouth at one time. He pulled his lighter out to ignite. Click. Click. Click. “Damn it!” Click-click. Click-click-click-click. He let out a deafening roar worthy of war, and threw his lighter towards the wall. He missed the wall, striking the clock. It shattered, raining onto the floor pieces of glass that would stay in the carpet for years. “God damn it!” the clock fell from the nail on the wall, giggling as it slid down �" as if it was tickled. There was no Mrs. Newsome to disturb. There was no one else to disturb, but himself; and disturb himself he did. He stood there in the middle of the shadows, his cigarette sitting in his mouth, holding back a hiccup of a laugh, like a kid standing next to his mother as he watched someone fall into a puddle. He was on the verge of tears. All he did was sludge back into his chair and flop his hands onto the machine.
           He had turned 43 a few months ago, and he had planned to write his masterpiece by the time he was 40. He was behind schedule, and nothing tore at him more. A thought occurred to him, not unlike all 48 before. An autobiography was due.

                       Since early childhood, I have been drawn to the art of the story.
                       They seemed to come to me with ease, and it was apparent that I
                       was born a bard, a wielder of words. This is why -

He grabbed the whole typewriter and shook it until it was grasping for air in between snorting laughter. He dropped the machine onto the table. He was certainly about to crack. He covered his face with his hands, rubbing his eyes without restraint. Suddenly. A cry. He drew it back as quickly as he could, but it had already pushed through his lips. The room was painfully silent for a few beats. Until. He let go. Every tear and whimper sliding from his face. His whole body shook. No one would hear him, or comfort him. His cries had been drowned by the uproar of mockery and guffaw.