Inspiration is forever! Love yourself more! Real writers and artists don't truly get blocked... They will admit this. You are your own obstacle! And well if you are truly creative then you don't wait for inspiration. Creatives live and experience life and it always inspires them. If you've run out of ideas maybe you shouldn't be writing anymore!
Here's one about getting a block as a writer or rather meeting the end of your writing career! Ha!
Just a thought!
Enjoy!
Kisses, m.
They're all dead...
(1-3-2010)
“They’re all dead… Every last one of them.” A faceless intruder reaches through the phone with these words. The line falls silent immediately after the cryptic message has been delivered.
It’s 1:15 A.M. I’ve been up and unable to sleep. Hours spent stalking the house looking for anything to do. Anything to fill the last moments before I fall asleep. Most nights after experiencing much anxiety I find myself settling down in the study. Amidst the four oversized bookcases filled with volumes after volumes I find myself sitting quietly in the dark and listening for the sounds that aren’t there. The room is nothing more than a blanket of shadows illuminated by the light of the full moon that breaks through the blinds. The mahogany desk rests beneath the darkest shadow almost invisible to the eye. There’s a slight chill in the air reminding me that I’m dressed far too lightly. My silk nightgown and robe are no match for the icy temperature. Despite the gooseflesh that dances up and down my arms, I continue to sip my Chianti and hope for a rest. When the line jumped with this familiar voice, I was completely surprised.
They’re all dead.What did it mean? Worry fills my mind.
I’m restless. Unable to finish my work tonight. Stuck. Blocked. Wide-awake. Damn. Nothing can calm my nerves. This edge will not pass. Every ounce of strength in my being is nearly gone. Each physical movement hangs on a tremor. Muscle spasm. Try to put out my cigarette but it’s very clear that I can’t shake this anxiety so I light another. My head swims with uneasy rationalizations. Could it be them coming for me? The ones I’d killed. Perhaps they are to blame, for this plague is in my mind. STOP! They are gone. All of them. You killed them. Put an end to this once and for all. Gone. With the simple yank of a plug. Zip. The screen snapped blank. Nothing. White reduced to a small dot in the middle of a black expanse. No more voices. No desires. Conquests. Dead.
With a quick flick of the wrist I shake clear the ash now resting at the tip of my cigarette. It’s nearly burned down to the paper. My thoughts are so consuming, I hadn’t noticed it was simply burning. Before taking another drag, I shift my weight in the oversized leather wingback chair. Slowly I lift my eyes to resume their stare at the oversized desk as it becomes something foreign in the darkness. Smoke gradually circles around me and climbs toward the light in the room before dissipating.
“My dear woman, you know that isn’t good for your health.” An earnest voice speaks from the darkness breaking the silence in the room.
Sensing that I’m no longer alone in the room, I pull the robe tightly around my waist. Clear as day I know that voice. Like an old friend haunting my ears the sound deliberately calms and frightens with its unknown intention. “Percy?” From the tone and diction of his controlled speech, it could be no other than Percy Sandoval. But it isn’t possible. He isn’t even…
“Yes. Oh I can assure you, I am very real indeed.” And just like that there he was sitting at the partially hidden mahogany beast. Same as I’d remembered. Tall, thin, devastatingly handsome, and charming as ever. Clothing meticulously set in place. Hair pushed back neatly. Those green eyes were the only thing that I could lock onto in the black.
“How?”
“Let’s not get into that just yet.”
“Why? What? You’re dead!”
“Ah, we’re back to that again. I’m very much here. The reason? We will get to that momentarily. I can see how you would assume the worst. Since the last time you laid eyes on me I was in fact toppling off of the Empire State Building.”
“Look, Percy. I’m sorry about all that, but there was no other way. How could it continue? You were, ahem, ARE the villain. Good vs. Evil. Right vs. Wrong. The villain gets it in the end.”
“Silly, isn’t it? See we all thought you’d see it that way. After all you tried to kill us, each and every one. Well, that’s why they chose me to speak?”
“Who?” I question and continue to entertain the notion that I’m not talking to myself. Gracefully, the most charming character I’d ever met, actually created, gets up from the desk. Walking over to the small bar in the corner he sets out to make a drink. I’m either completely sound asleep or finally lost my mind. The silence is overwhelming.
“Do You?” he picks up a bottle of 40 year old scotch and shakes it in my direction. I don’t drink the scotch. It was a gift to Jack and since he left, there it sat in the corner of the room. I look over at the remains of my Chianti and shake my head.
“No.”
“No Thank you. Manners are never an inconvenience.” He steps around the desk and looks about the room. “My word, this is quite a collection. You have a beautiful library. There must be over 10, 000 tomes here. Am I correct?”
“Yes. You would be correct.” Swallowing hard I brace myself for his answer. I know its coming, yet he’s continued to sidestep the issue.
“A.L. Knight. Why there is quite a bit of those? An entire shelf to be exact. Nearly two dozen. But you already know that? Right, A.L.?”
Nodding my head. I’ve carefully pulled my legs up into the chair. The beat of my heart has begun to intensify and I can hear it pounding fiercely. The thoughts of the unknown spin frantically through my head while I watch him. He’s methodically examining the room as he edges nearer to me. Slowly walking. He gently spins the globe with his free hand as he continues across the center of the room. Stopping. “May I?” He motions at the chair across from mine.
“Yes. Of course, make yourself at home.” Although he already had.
“Now I have questions for you. Wait. Before you interrupt, I will answer yours. You must, however, humor me further."
Decidedly this is madness. But I continue to humor this dark thing sprung loose from my imagination. Seated across from me sipping his scotch, he pauses before starting in, “Pardon my arrogance, but how much do you know about me? For that matter how much do you know about yourself?”
Puzzled and completely caught off guard I remain still until it’s clear that he’s waiting for an answer. “Forgive me. I’m not sure what you possibly mean by these questions. Can you be a little clearer?" The words seem childish and mediocre as they cross my threshold of speech.
“My dear woman, I can not be clearer with my intent. Don’t you understand? Please try to remember. Let me see… Here. How long have you lived at this residence? Or for that matter can you recall your tenth birthday?”
Foolishly I began to give in. I can certainly remember when I moved into this house. It was after I’d sold the first book. As I strain to recall the details of my childhood I realize that this is no ordinary figment. My mind is blank. I have no childhood. “Percy, where are they?”
“Do you understand? That they aren’t real. Think about this. A. L. Please realize you have a lot to answer for.” He sternly scolds me while continuing to swallow more of his scotch. “This is a superb bottle. I must say you’ve really outdone yourself on this place.”
Something is wrong. The colorful pictures that were once vivid in my memory are no longer there. Only the words. Black upon white. Pages upon pages filled. The last ten years merely composed of text and imagery. Words. All that makes up the world I stand in. My marriage. The children. Only words. “Percy what do you mean? What is going on? Who sent you? Explain.”
“Not until you understand. Once you do, the heinous crimes you’ve committed will become clear. Try thinking about your first book.” He laughs and toasts me with his scotch.
At this moment I probably look like a small child about to burst into a thousand tears. Slowly I feel as though I’m mentally shattering into pieces. The first book. Percy came to life. It was so incredibly liberating. So many characters. Liberty Sandoval. Caldwell Adams. But that isn’t it. Reminiscing about the first one feels like going home all over again. That small house on Sendana Ln. The horrifying origins of a killer. Crawling backwards in my mind. Looking for it. Her. Anna Leiss. Oh, dear, it was her. No dream. Only a long forgotten memory coming to life. I gasp out loud with the sheer horror and wait for him.
“Proceed my dear…”
“I understand. I just forgot. You must be furious. The others. I can’t even…”
“Now we’re up to speed. Since you understand. You know who sent me. They’re not all dead. Not even close to it.”
“I’ll go back now. I’ve overstayed my turn. Unless? Percy. You aren’t here to?”
“Overstayed would imply a couple of days overdue. Anna you have broken our laws. There are consequences. Why they sent me should be perfectly clear.” He reaches into his pocket and flashes a small paperback in front of me. “Last copy.” He gently thumbs through it until he reaches it. Page 203. “Refusing to return wasn’t enough of an insult. Then begin the killing your own kind. One by one, book after book, eliminating each of us. Anna. What did you think would happen after that final destructive blow? Did you honestly think we could be eliminated so easily?”
“Percy please, I’ll go back and explain.” My words have no more meaning than that of a child throwing a temper tantrum. He reaches into the book and tears out the page. 203. The one I know so well. The place I was born. My home. The first time I took a breath. Out of the book it comes.
“Anna it wasn’t your turn to stay this long. I can not bring you back. There is no return. You've been written out. You can thank yourself for that A.L. Knight. So consumed by the destruction of others, that you are no longer a part of our world. Except on page 203. Your predecessor’s swan song. As you said before there is no other way.” He strikes a match on the book’s edge. Carefully lights one corner of the page followed by another and another, before dropping it to the ground.
“No. Percy. Wait!” I can feel the heat of it beneath my feet. The imaginary fire crawls along my legs and reaches up my torso. Burning. Terrifying. This is why they sent him. Sadistic. Cruel. “Please, PERCY!”
“Anna, such a shame. You were always one of my favorite characters. Such a lovely well developed protagonist,” he goes on with the false complements as he tosses the entire book onto the flame. “No harm. I wasn’t in that one,” he says with a slight elevated laugh. “And don’t worry I won’t let the entire library burn to the ground. I wouldn’t mind keeping this collection for myself.”
“P-e-e-r-r-c-y,” I beg as the phantom flame swims around my face I can only make out the fine lines of text that comprise his figure. “D-O-O-O-N’T!”
“Anna, I really do like you. Fighter to the end.” Reaching over he dumps a vase of flowers, spilling water upon the burning mess. For the moment I can breathe again. My flesh feels the colors of pain and the words are no clearer than before. “HAHA.” His twisted laugh booms throughout the room. “I’ll think about writing you back in without all the burn marks. Until then, you’re dead, every last one of you.”
