Aardvark Posted January 31, 2003 Report Share Posted January 31, 2003 The writer sat there, staring at the glowing screen. In front of him, a white page that should've been flowing with fresh words, straight from his brain, though his fingers and onto this electronic medium for the masses to experience. But today, nothing. Not a thing would come out. His well of inspiration had been bulldozed and had a housing development whacked on top of it. He tried in vain several times, hoping if he started, inertia would carry him through to the end, but it was hopeless. A classic tale of treachery and war, perhaps? No, says his imagination. A harrowing tale of survival in atrocious conditions? Not a chance in hell, spoke his subconscious. How about a simple rant about anything that comes to mind? NOT A CHANCE IN HELL, every portion of his brain screamed in unison. It was no good. He had to admit it. HE had to face reality. He had writers block. And a severely shocking case of it at that He had to overcome it fast. Writing was his passion. He had to write. It defined himself. It also earned him cash on the side, which was possibly the most important fact in this day and age. He had to write again, he just had to. But how? What was causing it? His mental state? On the verge of collapse, kept going by will and excessive caffeine alone? He'd never written outside of it, though. Maybe it'd just been his day of inactivity. Nothing had happened to inspire him? Possibly... damnit, these he couldn't fix right away. He tried something simple. Grabbing a pen and paper, he sat down and had another bash at it. A simple poem. A limerick. There once was a man from.... oh, why am I even bothering? Maybe a refreshing drive 'round the suburbs was in order. He hopped in his old rundown junkheap and set out to... wherever. The destination wasn't important, as it would ultimately be home anyway. A little trouble starting the thing, but that was usual. It'd cost him bugger all, he wasn't complaining. Finally got the rust bucket going, he proceeded to navigate the winding streets of his home. Then he remembered he had no where in particular to go. So he picked directions at random. Left, left, right left, right right, right, left... He'd heard about cities where 3 rights would get you back on track if you missed a left. Cities where the roads were laid out in a neat grid, rather than a series of random twisted streets in the middle of nowhere which all lead around in circles, with only one way into the deathtrap. A cartographer's nightmare. But it was home. And it made for unpredictable journeys at times. Also gave him the perfect excuse for missing important functions he had no interest in attending He slowly passed a car that had melded into a telegraph pole. He would've gone quicker, but for the mundane bastards ahead of him who had some sick fascination with twisted bodies in wreckages stopping for 5 minutes to take pictures for their archives. Worst people on earth, he told himself. Finally, it was clear and he could once again cruise. He'd managed to wind up on a main road. Not a bad thing, but not really suited for random directions. So he stuck to it for a while. A few minutes later, he spied two cars and a series of paddy wagons by the side of the road. Men in uniform were swarming over the two cars, going through them. Another two of them were patting down two suspect looking gentlemen, while a woman in uniform was questioning a girl who barely looked over 14. Criminal bandits, he said to himself. He didn't know what that was about, he didn't care, either. Soon, it was out of site. And out of mind. He merged over and took a left at the next exit. Into another suburban area. This one was upper class. Ooooh, he loved cruisin' around upper class suburban areas in his noise machine. Too much fun could be had. Trouble was it tended to attract the attention of the constabulary if you spent too much time engaged in it. Not that there were any laws against it, but they didn't take too kindly to young hooligans taunting the affluent. With this in mind, he floored it. Roaring down a long straight, he quickly said a small prayer to the gods of automechanics and asked his beast to be good for him, then took a sharp corner. The screech of tyres caught the attention of a few kiddies playing in a front yard, but he was gone before they could get a good look. Onto a nice, windy downhill road, his favourite. Going a little too fast, he took the curves flawlessly, then broke hard and slid into another turn. Flooring it again, he saw a main road ahead and made the wise decision of returning home. He'd had enough fun for one day. The trip back was uneventful. Except for the suspiciously beefy looking V8 following him for a good mile or two, trying it's best to look nonchalant as it changed lanes whenever he did, doing it's best not to let any cars get between them. He laughed and made a point of going 20 below the limit until the car gave up pursuit. It wasn't too long before he was home and dry, the little cruise over, for today. He returned to his room, lay on his bed and retrieved his keyboard. Placing it on his lap, he moved his mouse. The machine lit up, showing the same familiar blank page. He cracked his knuckles, thought long and hard, then typed, "The writer sat there, staring at the glowing screen...." Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Peredhil Posted January 31, 2003 Report Share Posted January 31, 2003 Brilliant... I know the White Screen of Brain Cramp, but your interlude solution to it... I love it. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Gyrfalcon Posted January 31, 2003 Report Share Posted January 31, 2003 Gyrfalcon laughs and applauds An excellent story, Aardvark... though the ending is sending my brain into a loop because there technically is no end, just the story repeating endlessly. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Tasslehoff Posted February 1, 2003 Report Share Posted February 1, 2003 Very Well done! Very Well Done! I got a beefy V-8 in my truck. MUA AH HA HA!!. lol Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Aardvark Posted February 1, 2003 Author Report Share Posted February 1, 2003 I was considering getting an F100 Custom when I was car shopping about a month ago, until several people got together and repeatedly pointed out that I had no need for one, no use for one and no chance in hell of keeping the bastard on the road with my meagre income But a man can dream, can't he? A man can dream Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
The Portrait of Zool Posted February 1, 2003 Report Share Posted February 1, 2003 Hey if you're gonna dream, you gotta go F250!! That's the big boys toy. *Never could afford one either* <_> Cool story - it flows. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Tasslehoff Posted February 4, 2003 Report Share Posted February 4, 2003 I have a F100.. But ofcourse, mine is from '68.. So yea, but Erm.. I get 11 miles to the gallon. Ha Ha. I am SO broke. =X Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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