[Author's note -- This is part of the Seven Story Week I did a few years ago. It's just been sitting, collecting data dust.]
The End of Writer’s Block
By Caleb Rogers
I have writer’s block. I read once that if I ever had writer’s block, I should just write, and then it would all work itself out. So I guess that’s what I’m doing now. I’m writing just for the sake of writing, pecking away at the keyboard just to make something happen.
Hold on a second, computer, someone just knocked on the door.
OK, that was weird. No one was there.
Back to writing. Maybe there’s a story here. Maybe that knocking was some serial killer or stalker or something like that, wanting to kill me. Hmmm, I guess I could go with that.
Well, now. Someone is knocking again. Could that be my serial killer, I wonder?
Nope. No one was there. That must have been my neighbor’s kid or something. Yeah, that’s got to be the little brat. Someone just tapped on my window.
There it was again. Hold on, faithful keyboard, I’ve got to check through the blinds.
I don’t think I saw anything. Maybe someone’s head while they were ducking away — I’m not sure. Kid-sized, I guess. Anyway, back to the story at hand.
So this stalker of some kind—
I heard something again, but I think it was inside the house. It sounded close.
Nothing. I just sat here still, not even pecking away at the keyboard and I heard nothing. Must be my nerves. I guess the thought of a stalker or killer while someone is knocking on my door and window – well the thought just got to me.
A scrape? Did I just hear a scrape? Maybe I should stop writing? No, I should chronicle as much as possible. I guess the reporter in me never really died, living on despite the state of my career.
There it was again. Weird. It’s definitely a scraping, like a wind-blown branch rubbing on a window. The only real difference is that it’s definitely in the house.
Oh, God. I hear it getting closer. Here I am, listening to this really creepy sound, getting closer, and all I can do is type this miserable little writer’s block cure while thinking that I have gone and left my Colt .38 Detective’s Special unloaded in the nightstand. Brilliant.
Alright, my heart is pounding now because I can really tell that sound is getting closer. It’s not some guy in my house, it can’t be. The sound just isn’t like that.
I’m going to check anyway.
A quick peek and I was right, nobody was there. The sound stopped too. Maybe it was scared off by the large metal flashlight I had in my head, ready like a club over my head. I would have made a fine caveman.
I guess I’ve got the start of a story now, with all this creepiness going on. And… there it is again.
In the hall, coming this way, closer but not louder. The sound is deeper now, too. I’ll guess I’ll have another look. What the fu
The End
