Writer's block (nanowrimo practice)
Writer's block
William typed breathlessly at the computer screen. He hated to start a story, but wrote nearly every day. Mostly he hated ending the story. He would fight coming to his terminal as long as he could … and then the need would strike and often he’d be completely taken aback by how quickly he’d suddenly appear in front of the screen, logging hours and typing whatever thoughts that part of his brain needed to convey. He sometimes wished he could separate himself from it: Unplug it and let it just sing.
He’d tried that one day. Having spent the Friday and Saturday with some of his more interesting friends, he woke up early the following morning with an odd taste in his mouth, a ringing on one side of his head, and the fuzzy notion he’d forgotten something.
What did I do last night? Why can’t I feel my feet?
Slowly he slogged his way to the kitchen where he poured himself a glass of water. Downing it in one swift swipe, he opened up the waste disposal facility, deposited his required litre, and slogged off to see what mischief he had thought up the night before. Upon his computer desk he saw a note: Go to the bathroom.
Huh?! That’s my handwriting … I wonder what Mark gave me …
Wobbling to the back, he opened the door to find a body in the bathtub, wires leading from the tub proper to the outlet next to the mirror, and a small gate warding off what appeared to be midgets. Tilting his head, he looked at the mirror itself and noticed a huge scar across his head.
I wonder what that was from. It doesn’t hurt … oddly enough it reminds me of how
As William touched his scar, his thoughts suddenly scattered as he heard a moaning come from the bathtub. As he made his way there, the tapping of keys made him curious and reluctant … and a slight pause led him to move the curtain. The tub was half full. Someone had insulated the tub with some sort of rubber matting. There were fingers connected to a dozen robotic arms, which were linked to a very odd looking assembly comprising part of a lung, about half a pound of mismatched hair, assorted bone fragments, and a small black box, from which continued to emanate the moaning. The fingers slowly connected to a small black surface, punctuated by keys. Wires entering the tub snaked to the voice box, the small black surface, and small flesh-colored cage that housed the various body parts.
What is that odd smell?
As he noticed the smell, he also noticed the typing.
Now this is interesting. I can smell myself think.
It seemed that it was true. Every time he’d stop moving and start thinking, the strange collage of humanity would begin typing again. Odder still was that immediately before actually thinking something; he noticed an odor coming from the typing mass.
I know what that smell reminds me of… It reminds me of what it felt like to be finally free of a story! I remember it distinctly, now.
As William began to get excited, the headless typist spat out letters furiously, and at the completion of the task, he heard another familiar sound in the kitchen. Brows furrowed, he slowly made his way toward the sound. On the way there, he noticed a small wire, gossamer in texture, follow his footsteps and lead him toward his computer. The mechanical pulse he’d noticed in the bath was coming from his printer!
Afraid to look but far too curious to stop, he made his way to the active device. The sheet was nearly finished when he reeled from what he was reading.
My thoughts! It’s actually printing my thoughts!
The smell and typing sound in the distance confirmed his growing horror. Below this, however, was something else entirely.
I never thought this … I don’t think in poetry. I don’t think in prose. I don’t think in … stories?
The implications slammed him down on the ground, HARD. He needed to end this. He needed to fix this. He needed … to have a chat with himself.
He slowly made his way to the bathroom, as the mindless typist gladly typed out reams upon reams of drivel. Arriving there, the bathroom door was locked.
I must have locked it when I went to check on that sound.
Trying the knob, he realized the lock was on the inside …