I rubbed my temples as I slumped back in my chair. Frustration boiled out of me in radiating waves that increased in intensity. I wanted to scream.
“God damnit.” I muttered. I had been there all day. Three sentences. Three measly, awful, word salad, garbage sentences that stained the page a hideous shade of midnight black.
“Fuck.” I held down the backspace key, a black page once again greeting me. I leaned forward. I needed to focus, my publisher’s deadline was in a few short months, and I had nothing!
Nothing!
I opened a google search tab and desperately searched for good story ideas. I needed a spark.
I was tasked by my publisher to write a fiction story, but other than that, the proverbial door was propped open. Whatever I wanted to write, whatever story I wanted to tell, I could. Maybe my lack of direction is what made the task so mind-numbingly difficult.
I slammed my computer down, the google search uninspiring. I gazed out the coffee shop’s massive front windows. A barista’s piercing blender to my right. I stared intently at the intersection. I was losing myself to the disparaging defeat, allowing meaningless daydreams to intrude where plot lines and character arcs should have been brewing.
A mother and her young daughter, crossing the street outside. I fixated on the pair for some indistinct reason. The chilly winds picked up, kicking multicolored autumn leaves up into the air.
“EEEERRRRRR!”
The blaring sound of a car horn, a flash of blue color in my peripheral.
A pedestrians scream.
A blur of motion.
A girl’s body getting flung into the air.
A mothers body getting crushed under rubber, sprays of red shooting out.
Patrons in the coffee gasped and screamed, many shuffling towards the exit. The crowd eventually dispersed onto the sidewalk. Phones were pulled out, mouths were covered by hands, and I was euphoric.
I typed away on my fresh word document like a maniac, a psychotic grin sprawled across my lips. I was entranced in the writing, not entirely sure what was being put onto the page, but knowing that it was good.
Real damn good.
I glanced upwards, seeing a young woman, bundled in a grey, plaid scarf and a red puffer vest, staring down at me, shocked. Her mouth was agape, her eyes wide.
“Are you serious?! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” She exclaimed. I ignored her, slamming my laptop. I shoved my way past her to the door and caught a frigid, dry breeze right in my face. I shivered as I examined the grisly sight. People were crying, holding each other. Police sirens wailed closer and closer. I saw the little girl’s pink jacket, torn to shreds and blood soaked.
When I got home, I continued writing my magnum opus. I spent hours on the page, gleefully churning out sentence after sentence.
After quite some time and nearly thirty-thousand hand cramping words, I decided to retire to my bed for the evening.
I walked into my bedroom, and froze.
The pink jacket. Bloody. On my pillow.
I shrieked, falling to the ground. I scrambled backwards, horrified.
“Why did you laugh? Was it funny?” A girls voice. I covered my ears. I screamed.
“Why did you steal my jacket?”
“Why would you write those things?” The voice continued.
“DELETE IT!” A demonic howl shook the walls. I held onto the door frame for support as I was jerked around violently.
“STOP!” I screamed, a guttural, primal howl. I stumbled to my computer. I opened the word document, and read the words that were printed on the hundreds upon hundreds of pages.
Mommy goes splat splat splat.
Girls face is flat flat flat.
Mommy goes splat splat splat.
Girls face is flat flat flat.
Mommy goes splat splat splat.
Girls face is flat flat flat.