Writer’s Block

I sit in my chair and stare at the blank screen. Wishing upon wishes that a spark of inspiration would strike me down so I can finish this poor portfolio. I have one story left to do and only five days left to complete it. But the ideas do not come. Some say that they work better under pressure but I call and say “Bullshit!” from my chair. I look at the 4:00 a.m. sitting in the corner of my screen and slither to my small twin-size pull-out couch. Maybe some well-needed sleep will loosen the brain and let the ideas fall out of my poor head.

I stand upon the long empty Google search bar. Before me, all the knowledge of creation assembled just waiting to be unlocked. The old sage of all knowing Google appears, reaches down and hands me the sword of knowledge.

"It’s dangerous to go alone! Take this,” he says, placing the sword in my hands. It looks like the Google logo and I’m holding on to the ‘e’ like a cutlass. “Go now, child, and find your salvation — or your oblivion.”

I walk through the first page of searches. The same simple story ideas assault me as I pass, I slew them one after another. Like slow Romero zombies, the Google sword cuts them down before their cliche, drawn out ideas could corrupt me. Turning me into just another writer telling the same old drawn out stories. Destined to simply collect dust on a neglected shelf of Barnes and Noble. I reach the end of the page and stare wide-eyed at the "next page" button.

“No one ever goes to the second page…” I mutter to myself, glancing back at the zombies of stories past shuffle towards me. “Do I stand and face the horde of overdone themes? Or do I jump?” I ask myself.

“Damn, I got to be pretty desperate to go to the second page of Google!” I yell as I jump onto the button, getting teleported to the neglected second page of searches. The creatures here were not slow, I cut down twisted soulless ideas as they come at me. Fanfiction, articles and Wiki writing by Joe Blow fly at me in a rage from being always ignored. Stories that stole the universes of others fly at me. Harry Potter fan stories, Naruto, everything under the sun that someone could borrow and try to make their own. My sword is only barely fast enough to keep up.

“I cannot fall into the rut of not being my own…” I vow, fighting on.

My resolve falters cutting down the stolen ideas of others. I need a shield to block the nauseating effect of the stolen ideas has on me. I summon my inner creativity, forming it into a solid entity. A solid orange steel shield that is mine, and mine alone. Restored, with Google sword and Creativity shield, I wade back into battle. Plowing down the stolen ideas faster than they can be summoned from writers' hell.

Suddenly the stolen ideas scatter, screaming bloody murder.

“That’s right! You better run!” I call, cocky in my thinking it was by the prowess of my battle that they were scared. But I am, sadly, dead wrong. A ham sized gray fist sends me flying back into the crowd of stolen ideas. They scramble away from me as if I am the plague. Bloodied and shaken, I look up to my true opponent. A giant gray cube with “Writer’s” engraved into the front stands before me daring me to continue.

“It’s the Writer’s Block!” I scream wiping the blood from my mouth. How could I, with my Google sword and my little shield of Creativity, battle the thing that has ruined so many writers in the past? I think to myself. Writer’s Block slams the ground at his feet, sending thumbnail shrapnel flying. Raising my arm, the shards of stolen ideas harmlessly ping off my shield. I dodge a strike aimed at me, rolling away I stab with my sword. It glances off its hard block skin with no effect. I strike again as the slow Writer’s Block tries to end my writing existence. The Google sword of Knowledge shatters. While I’m shocked, the damn block clocks me in the jaw, again sending me sliding across the scared thumbnails of stories.

Swordless, I scramble for the next page button. A gray hand grabs me around the calf, dragging me back into battle. I claw at the thumbnails under me desperate for a hand hold but they scatter out of my reach, screeching.

“You will not win, little one. Many have tried to defeat Writer’s Block. All too many have failed,” the gray block banters, dragging me to oblivion.

I grind my teeth, slamming my shield into the huge gray fist. “You will not take me! I am better than you!” I challenge. “I will not only defeat you, but I will destroy you!” I call pouring all my strength into my shield. All the faith in my writing, the crazy left field ideas and every creative bit I have. My shield lengthens, changing into a mighty hammer.

With a smile, I bring down the hammer on to the top of that gray fist, right on a knuckle. The fist pops open long enough for me to get to my feet. “You’re mine now, asshole!” I call as I jet my hammer head into the side of the block. Writer’s Block twitches as a crack forms at the site of impact. “Nothing will stop me! Not my ex-wife, not my broken hands, not society, not even you…” I say, bashing my hammer into the crack.

“No one can destroy me, you foolish child! I will be back!” Writer’s Block threatens as it crumbles into rubble before me.

I flip my hammer, the Hammer of BigGuy, over my shoulder. “And I’ll be ready for you next time... prick.” I say, spitting onto the pile of rubble before me.