Writer's Block

David Stone crumples the paper and tosses it aside. It falls to the floor amid heaps of other crumpled cousins. He leans back against his office chair and sighs. He couldn't understand why he was having such a difficult time writing. Writing out of all things came easy - words gushed out of his mind onto paper like a harmonious flow of honey. Nothing flowed now, his mind was clogged. He dreaded writer's block. His most recent work of fiction, On High Ground was a critically acclaimed success, garnering nationwide sales and a thrust into the literary spotlight.

David stood up and stretched. His lower back ached from the long hours spent at his desk. He strode across his studio loft to the kitchen and flicked on the overhead industrial lamps. He started the Keurig. Perhaps a nice cup of strong black coffee would fire up his mental magic, David thought. He was doubtful. Two months had passed, and he couldn't muster together an eloquent sentence, a verbose description or even a riveting plot. No, the words fell flat and dry further parching the paper. He felt like he was wandering in the wilderness, already forty days had passed and there was no respite in sight to the inner temptations gnawing on his confidence as a newly established author. It was his dream to make it in the world as a writer, a career that would keep him on his creative toes, satisfying the inner machinations of his mind. His thoughts were interrupted by the trickling stream of coffee pouring into his mug. A delightful and crisp aroma of dark roast filled the air.

The emergence of dawn appears through the tall windows as David sips his coffee. He gazes through a pane, admiring the suburban view of the city, buildings and trees once silhouettes begin to announce their colors with the rising sun.

He enjoyed the early hours of the day - the quiet and solitude gave way to a mysterious air that stimulated his imagination. Two pigeons flutter past the pane momentarily startling David. He resumes to sip the rest of his coffee. He begins to turn and head back to the kitchen for a refill and a jelly donut to quell his grumbling stomach.

Suddenly, the entryway door flings open with a loud bang. Men in black swat-like gear pour through the door like a swam of ants. Before David can react, the men descend upon him. His mug falls and crashes onto the floor sending a splash of coffee across his feet. He cries out resisting, as a bag is swiftly placed over his head. David feels himself being hauled out of his studio. His chest tightens and his stomach turns into knots. He can barely make out figures through the bag. His breath is rapid and hot, he feels like his is going to suffocate as fear constricts his entire body.

The sound of two van doors open and David is shoved into the vehicle. He stumbles and hits his head on something hard and metallic. A firm hand pushes on his shoulder prompting him to sit. David's hands are tied and the doors swing shut. The engine revs, and the van lurches forward sending vibrations through his seat.

David tries to adjust himself, the hard seat banging into his back from the bumps in the road. He tries to gather himself but can't shake off the growing dread. Why was he taken? What did he do wrong? Questions fleeted his mind. Why me?

David surmised that approximately forty minutes had passed since his abduction. The smooth rumble of the tires then changes into a crunching of rocks. Plinks of gravel could be heard hitting the wheel well. The van then grinded to a halt. The doors swing open and two strong men haul David out and drag him away toward a building.

The cold slick floor sends icy chills up David's battered bare feet. He waits, standing silently as the sound of approaching footsteps echo across the floor. His heart pounds like a galloping horse as the footsteps halted in front of him. Darkness, then light as the bag is removed from his head. He winces his eyes and absorbs in his new surroundings. David finds himself standing in a fluorescent corridor. A man in a slick burgundy suit stands before him.

"Welcome to Writer's Block" the man announces.

"Writer's wha-"

David looks up and sees large looming letters "WRITER'S BLOCK" printed above the entryway of the corridor. He looks further down the corridor; rows of cells line the hallway. Before he can speak the strange man interrupts him.

"You have approximately 40 hours to complete the assigned task."

"What task?!" David gawks.

The man uncannily grins and responds, "You will know soon enough."

The man motions the guards and snaps his fingers before strutting away.

David is dragged the corridor past several cells. He catches glimpses of some men and women scrawling away with pen and paper at desks. A cocktail of fear, anger and confusion spike his mind. He hopes he isn't going crazy. They reach the cell, and he is shoved in, the metal bars clanging shut behind him.

The cell is sterile and cold; a dimly lit light buzzes overhead. A toilet and a sink line the left corner of the cell. A white cot hangs suspended on the right wall. A small desk and chair occupy the center of cell. David approaches the desk. On the desk is a stack of plain lined paper accompanied by a row of uniform pens. A tiny notecard in the corner of the desk in fine print reads: INSTRUCTIONS: WRITE.

What kind of sick joke is this? David knocks over the chair in frustration and rattles his cell bars. He yells and screams. A guard tells him to be quiet. Exhausted, he slinks to the floor in despair and slips into a sleep.

David is roused by the sound of a voice.

"Pssst, wake up!" the voice urges.

David leans his head against the bars and replies, "Who's there?"

"Hurry, you have to write," the female voices urges.

The woman's voice is coming from the cell adjacent to his cell.

"Where are we?" David questions.

"Shhh, keep your voice down, they'll hear you."

"Where are we? Are we in some kind of prison for writers?" David jokes.

"It's not funny, look we are running out of time David."

"Hey, how do you know my name?"

"I know many things."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Faith. David you must write now, your life is at stake".

"My life? You've got to be kidding me!"

This was just an elaborate prank gone too far David thought. It can't be real. He felt like he was losing his mind.

"Faith?"

Faith is silent.

***

David taps the pen against the paper. The paper like his mind is blank. Even here, the chasm of inspiration is out of his reach. He wasn't sure how much time had elapsed - a day, hours, minutes? His stomach loudly grumbles. His head throbs. The light faintly flickers overhead. Tick tock, David hears the imaginary clock in his mind. Tick tock. His fingers tense around the pen. Tick tock.

***

"You have failed to write," the man in burgundy declares. He shuffles through the blank pages before David in the corridor.

"Pity, I had high hopes for you, David," nodding his head in disapproval.

David trembles, the man's cool composure frightens him.

"Please give me more time, I'm sure if I-"

"More time? You writers are so predictable," the man laughs.

He twirls around and snaps his fingers. The guards shove a bag over David's head as he attempts to plead with the man.

"Such a pity," the man exclaims as his voice echos down the corridor. David struggles as he is dragged away to his foreboding fate.

David feels something snake-like tighten around his neck. He shifts his feet on the wooden platform. The air is somber; a slight breeze ruffles his hood.

"Any last words?" a voice declares.

Forty seconds pass.

"Faith" David whispers.

The platform drops.

David jolts awake in dread. Beads of sweat roll down his temples. A vivid nightmare, no doubt. He hadn't had a nightmare in a while. He was glad it was only a dream; it felt so real. The clock reads 4:04am. David unfurls the covers and hobbles out of bed. He walks feeling his way along the wall of the studio and flicks on the kitchen light. He starts the Keurig and pops in a pod of dark roast. Yawning, he meanders to his desk. He turns on the lamp and seats himself. He begins to write.