Writer's Block

“You are the dullest man that I have ever met,” he said with a flamboyant shrill. He was tall in my doorway. His curlers, wrapped tightly around his black hair, nearly touched the top of the frame. He had his arms crossed in an accusatory way with a condescending look on his face. His chocolate skin was smooth and his fuzzy pink robe pulled against his muscles. He had matching pink slippers, a size thirteen. He had a square, leather backpack; the straps tight around his shoulders. 

“Come on honey,” he smacked his lips at me, “We got work to do.” He walked past me and into my apartment. Speechless, I closed the door behind him. 

He went on, “So I was thinking action, ooh, or drama. I wouldn’t be against a mystery…What do you think about a forbidden romance to keep things interesting?” 

“What?” I asked, “What are you talking about? Who are you?” 

The stranger grin wildly. “Oh, where are my manners?” he laughed as if he told a joke. “I’m the storyteller, honey.”

“Storyteller?” I repeated. He chuckled and made himself comfortable on my loveseat couch. It was a bland beige with a single cigarette hole in the cushion. When he didn’t explain, I went on, “What in the world does that mean? Why are you here?”

The storyteller laughed again. It was a deep crackle with two ‘ha ha’s’. “I’m writing your life story but honey, you are not giving me anything to work with. Pretty drab, if you ask me, your life that is.” He took off his backpack and placed it on the table in the living room. He undid the golden buckles and opened it up to reveal nicely packed rows of small books no bigger than my wallet. He ran his fingers down along the spines of each one until he came upon a yellow leather bound book with enforced brown corners. 

“This one is yours,” he said as he took it out from its place. I reached for it but he pulled it out from within my grasp. “You can’t read it,” the storyteller explained, as if I was a child. His tone came across patronizing. “You read your own story, you die. You wouldn’t want to read it anyway. It’s the dullest thing out there and only five pages long. So we need to fix that.” 

“How do we do that…” I trailed off, the real question burning in my skull, “Why would we do that?” My life wasn’t the most exciting, but it was my life. I’m a bank teller and I take the bus to work. I’ve never dated, besides Wendy Tanner in the eighth grade, but she broke up with me because Frankie Gilligan could do a backflip. Since community college, I’ve never found myself in a situation I couldn’t get out of. Eat, work, sleep, repeat. That was my life. 

“Do you even have a goldfish?” he asked me, breaking me from my thoughts.

“A what?” 

“A goldfish. Or any pet. A lizard or snake would definitely be fascinating.”

“Umm…” I looked around my empty apartment. There were plenty of spaces for a tank or dog bed. “No.”

“Well, you do now,” the storyteller snapped his fingers and a small glass aquarium popped in my hands. I jumped, almost dropping the fish.

The storyteller let out another ‘ha-ha’, and clapped his hands together. “What are you going to name it?”

“I dunno…Fish?” I looked at the goldfish. It swam around in a circle. “What am I going to do with a fish?”

“We’ll figure it out. I’m sure I can just dot stuff down, but I’ll do that later.” I could feel him staring at me with annoyance. I looked back at him through the aquarium. The water distorted his appearance and I couldn’t help but giggle. His head was big and wavy from the rest of his small frame. Like a balloon. 

“Oh come on,” the storyteller pressed, “Your title is even boring. ‘David Smith’. That’s it. No ‘life of’ or ‘adventures’ The only interesting thing about you is that you don’t have a middle name.” His face relaxed and he added with a calm demeanor, “Don’t you want a story to tell?”

I shrugged. “I’m pretty content with my life right now. And hey, I’m not alone.” I gentle motioned to Fish.

“Well I’m not,” he said, “You know, my name’s on the book too. I haven’t had my big break yet, but I’m not going to be known as the worst author in history. So, what do you say about the police knocking at your door right about now?” He opened my book and began writing, and then furiously scratched out what he wrote. “No,” he licked the tip of his pen and wrote again, “Ninjas.” 

I sighed, “Why would ninjas knock at my door?” 

“You’re right,” he nodded, “They wouldn’t knock. Could you imagine that? A polite ninja?” He broke into another obnoxious laugh. “Well,” he said, serious now, “What are you going to do?” 

In the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow move. I gulped and took to the front door.

“The front door?” the storyteller groaned. “That’s the most boring way out of this situation. Can’t you at least take the fire escape? Or jump out the window?”

I kept my pace for the door and only turned back when one of the storyteller’s ninjas jumped in front of my path. I saw the storyteller aggressively writing. I squealed and turned on my heel. Some water from Fish’s tank splashed on my hand. The ninjas slowly advanced with the storyteller following close behind. The pace of his writing slowed, along with the ninja’s speed. I quickly turned my attention to the dining room window. It opened with ease and I ran down the fire escape steps as fast as I could, holding onto Fish tightly. 

I carefully climbed down the ladder, only to land in a giant pool of water.

“What’s this now?” The entire alleyway was flooded and the water came up to my waist.

“Flood,” the storyteller said simply. He was standing above me on the fire escape. He licked the tip of his pen.  “So what are we thinking? Sharks? Snakes? Do alligators make sense? Can you look up alligators on your phone?” 

“How about none of those?” I asked, stress straining my voice.

The storyteller rolled his brown eyes. “You still don’t get it, do you? Let’s go with alligators. I can change it later. Run it as deja vu.” 

All of a sudden, large scaly alligators floated to the surface of the water. They opened their large jaws in a hiss and made their way toward me. 

“Ahh!” I screamed and turned around. 

“Running away again?” the storyteller sighed as he rubbed his temples. “How am I not surprised? You are killing me with this.” 

Splashing in the rising water, I made it to the street to see clear skies.

“I thought it was flooded, why isn’t it raining?” I asked.

“Oh right, thank you for reminding me,” he said. With a scribble in my life book, the clouds turned for the worse. Grey, angry masses of air swirled around each other until a tornado formed. 

“I said rain, not a tornado!” I shouted. With instant regret, I began to swim with one arm holding onto Fish, down the street away from the vortex. 

“What now, what now?” The story teller asked, excitedly. He floated alongside me, biting the tip of his pen.

“You can fly?” I asked. I watched as his robes teased the waves of the rising water.

“Oh honey,” he chuckled, “I am not getting my loafers wet. Please.” He cleared his throat and went on, “What about a rescue boat? Or a big vehicle with giant wheels? Or do you prefer to keep swimming?”

“Give me the boat,” I said, spitting out water. 

“Good call,” he said. 

A small wooden boat appeared at the corner of the next intersection. I picked up the pace of my strokes and swam faster to the vessel. I climbed aboard and caught my breath. I checked to make sure Fish was alright. He was suspended in the middle of the bowl, an air bubble ready to pop at the surface. I looked around and saw the frozen tornado down the street, drops of water caught in midair, alligators, motionless in the alleys and a man in black with a sword drawn stuck in the air. 

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“Writer’s block,” the storyteller replied. “I don’t know where to go from here. I thought this would be easy, just making stuff happen to you, but none of it makes any sense. I mean, a tornado in the city? Alligators and ninjas? Where’s the why? That…now that is the interesting part.” 

“What if…” I trailed off with my thoughts, “What if we go back to the beginning and start over? I go to work like I’m supposed to. My lunch is already made.” 

The storyteller shook his head, “And what? Just trash all these ideas? You went from five pages to fifty because of all this.” 

 “It’s all just nonsense,” I said, “Who would want to read this story?...Maybe, maybe I’m just not meant to be interesting.” 

“That’s a load of bull,” he said. “Everyone has a story to tell.” 

“Then what’s mine?” I asked.

“You tell me,” he said. He licked the tip of this pen again and placed it in the book. He looked at me with challenging eyes and a devilish smile. “Well? I’m waiting.”