MICHAEL DAILEY Blocked

BLOCKED

By Michael Dailey

He crumpled a piece of paper in his frustrated hands and threw the ball of disappointment into the pile of other disappointments. One poem after another found its final resting place by the trashcan that was now overflowing. The clock ticked impatiently above him, wagging its second hand in disapproval. His forehead met the glass desk for the hundredth time that night. On his desk lay a menacing black cube. The cube had a ghoulish green glow to it and a light smoke danced around the cube’s faces.

You only have to write two pages, that’s not so hard is it? He leaned his head back in his chair and stared at the blank paper before him. Anything that came to mind was quickly discarded, as it was deemed boring or stupid. He wrote sentence of a zombie story, and felt proud for making it to the second line of the page. Then he remembered how overdone zombie stories are and struck the idea with the end of his pencil. Part of him felt the box judging him as it sat quietly overlooking his workspace.

What about something about love? He channeled his inner Nicholas Sparks and wrote the sappiest love story a high schooler could write. To get in the mood he played Taylor Swift’s entire discography on repeat. By the time he reached her Red album he had made it to the end of the first page, and his writing started to come to a standstill. Four breakups and a prom dance later, he realized this wasn’t him at all, and did away with the love story. Did you really think that was a good idea? He was becoming discouraged, and dejectedly he lay his pencil down. Nothing was working. He found premade writing prompts online and attempted to formulate some sort of response. In-

stead, he just read the other writers’ responses and sulked, wishing he had the ability to write like them. He clicked through prompt after prompt until all the links on the Google page were purple.

I bet everyone turned their piece in already. He had become exhausted. What had he done to deserve such an awful punishment? Why had the wretched Writer’s Block chosen him? He glared at the cube staring back at him. The Writer’s Block fed on his exhaustion; it loved to see him suffer. The cube was an expert at what it did, and the boy swore he could feel it grinning at his frustration. Just write about the first thing that comes to mind! Taking his own advice, he began to write about the first thing that came to his mind: how nothing had been coming to mind. He described his trials and gave emotion and life to the hours he had spent stuck with the Writer’s Block. As his ideas danced onto the page he realized the cube that had been glaring at him all night was beginning to fade away. When he reached the end of his paper, he triumphantly slammed his pencil down and admired his work. He took one final look at the cube and caught a glimpse of it just before it disappeared.