Blue Light - A Short Story

The only light in Jim’s bedroom was blue.

Warm sunlight hadn’t passed beyond the curtains, nor fresh air beyond the window. The hum of passing vehicles, the spring breeze caressing the trees, and the chattering of birds gliding across the sky had all failed to reach Jim’s ears that day, for they were firmly tucked beneath his headphones. Even if they weren’t, he wouldn’t have heard a thing.

Jim hadn’t gazed outside since rising from his slumber in the early afternoon. His t-shirt, which he had worn to bed the night prior, was marred with stains, and marinated in the stench that was him without care. The young man’s odour soured the sedentary air, but he’d long since gotten used to the smell. Besides, he wasn’t out to impress anybody.

That’s what he told himself anyway.

Though Jim’s eyes were firmly locked on the luminous blue rectangle hovering above his desk amidst a sea of blackness, clarity had completely drained from his vision. The imagery and text cast against the blue light appeared as little more than faint, transparent, and flickering blurs. Jim clamped his eyes shut and shook his head, and everything became slightly clearer when his eyelids parted. However, he still couldn’t remember what he’d been watching just seconds prior. Resting within his head were a jumbled set of recollections, all bearing a grey tint. They would soon slip from his mind as they always did.

Clicking through dozens of tabs, Jim found that little caught his attention. Some of the memes were funny, but not laughably funny. The longwinded posts littering his social media feeds ran the gambit from benign to aggravating, but he wasn’t looking to get himself into any futile arguments, so he moved on. He continued perusing other pages for what felt like mere moments but amounted to several minutes.

Eventually, Jim stumbled across a video in which a beautiful woman was featured. She stared at him through the blue light, smiling, laughing, and speaking enthusiastically on matters about which Jim was completely oblivious. He couldn’t recall why he had initially clicked on the video, or when, but he didn’t close the tab. He simply allowed the video to continue playing as he began to feel things. A lightness in his stomach, warmth washing over his pale skin, unusual palpitations. To ascertain the meaning of these sensations would have required a level of introspection beyond somebody who had been awake for close to fourteen hours.

So, Jim didn’t think. He simply sat with his feelings, and her.

A faint smile soon emerged on Jim’s face, though it was cloaked beneath his unkept facial hair. He wasn’t smiling because the beautiful woman was witty or insightful. She might have been, but he wasn’t paying attention to what she was saying, despite being able to hear nothing else. He just liked that she was there, reminding of something that he was certain he could have had at some stage in the past had he not become who he was.

Affection was easier to come by this way. Standing up is harder than clicking a button, and doing so doesn’t take one to the door, or outside, or in front of somebody. The difference between that which Jim wanted and that which he had wasn’t appreciable to him in that moment.

Remaining in the presence of the blue light was the path of least resistance. It was bright, familiar, and comforting. Yet the comforts of the blue light differed from those provided by a bonfire like those Jim and his old friends would sit beside as kids while out camping.

The fire always began small, but it would grow as it consumed more matter. It moved with the wind, becoming brighter and dimmer over the course of the night. The fire never looked quite the same as it had before or would after, and it would inevitably die, but not  without leaving a trace of itself in the form of charred wood or floating embers.

In that sense, the blue light shared little in common with fire, for the blue light was without life. The blue light was but an artificial reprieve which demanded nothing of Jim except his time, which he gave willingly, but could not give indefinitely.

Jim yawned as he leaned down and switched off his computer. The blue light dissipated, plunging the room into darkness.

And Jim was as he had been, but without the pretence

The Stale Baguette

I’ve been to plenty of subpar restaurants in my time, but never have I had as unpleasant an experience as my first and only evening at the Stale Baguette. The name probably should have tipped me off, but my wife and I elected to give the place a chance based on a glowing recommendation from a friend of mine.

I’m still undecided on whether I want to speak to him again.

The Stale Baguette is advertised as a “serene slice of Paris.” Perhaps I’m uncultured, but I don’t associate serenity with deafeningly loud heavy metal, nor Paris with waiters wearing bamboo wind chimes as hats. The décor was similarly puzzling, and that’s assuming the empty liquor bottles scattered across the floor weren’t supposed to be there.

My wife and I were forced to wait fifteen minutes before being seated. Mind you, this was not due to a lack of available tables, but rather because much of the dining room staff were preoccupied with clipping their toenails while laughing at us and the other patrons. Once we were finally seated, we found that our cutlery was drenched in dirt, as though they had just been used to dig an opencast mine. When I brought this to the attention of a passing waiter, he spat in my face.

As far as I’m concerned, my wife and I had already been provided with enough reasons to write-off the Stale Baguette and seek dinner someplace else, but we’re a patient pair. Plus, when our assigned waiter came to take our order, he seemed far more pleasant than the rest of his co-workers.

Seemed being the operative word.

While I was relaying my order to the waiter, he lightly kicked me in the chin. I said nothing, simply presuming that it was unintentional. That explanation seemed less plausible after the seventh kick to the chin. I can only assume that injuring me for no discernible reason absorbed all his attention while he was taking our orders, because he got them completely wrong.

My wife was served a spicy veal and capsicum broth instead of the French onion soup she ordered, while I was simply given a bowl of salt. I promptly told our waiter that a mistake was made, at which point he scrambled into the kitchen. A few moments later, the head chef charged into the dining room brandishing sharp cooking utensils.

We only narrowly made it back to our car, which is now in dire need of repainting.

I give the Stale Baguette one and a half stars.

Temperamental Brakes

In all my years on Earth, I never once considered what I would do if my brakes were to stop working while I was driving down a steep hill. I had more frequently pondered strategies for evading or combatting a school of sardines armed with frag grenades and legs.

Unfortunately, fate cares little for well laid plans. The fact of the matter was that my car’s brakes were unresponsive, and I was rapidly gaining speed.

It’s often said you regret the things you don’t do, but in that moment, I regretted selling my handbrake for three dollars to that guy who was wearing nothing but a pair of underpants. I’m humble enough to admit that was a critical error, along with not getting my car serviced for sixteen years.

To say that my brakes failed at an inconvenient time would be an understatement akin to suggesting that a proton is somewhat small. The steep road I was hurtling down concluded at a T-junction punctuated by a brick wall. I got the distinct impression that I wouldn’t survive crashing into that wall, what with the lack of seatbelts in my car.

Selling my seatbelts was probably a mistake too.

Seeing as I was not the protagonist of a cartoon, I couldn’t rely on gravity momentarily ceasing to exist on my behalf. It was also doubtful that anybody would come to my rescue unless they had a jetpack on hand or were inexplicably omnipotent. Circumstance was forcing me to pull myself up by my bootstraps and find a way out of that situation all on my own.

I briefly considered bailing out of my car, but at the speed I was going, that felt like choosing to die longer and painfully rather than instantly upon hitting the brick wall. That idea was swiftly replaced with detailed mental plans to convert my car into a rocket and fly to safety Unfortunately, I didn’t have the time, nor the materials, nor the capacity to turn my car into a twin-engine jet, least of all while it was in motion.

After punching myself in the head a few times while shouting an array of profanities, I was suddenly struck with an epiphany. The solution to my woes had been staring me in the face the whole time. The road ended at a T-junction, meaning I could either turn left or right and thereby save myself. I would have jumped for joy, but I was sitting down, so I sat for joy instead.

With my plan hatched, I gripped the steering wheel, exhaled deeply, and prepared to do that which those of less fortitude and intelligence could never hope to achieve. Safely executing a ninety degree turn while traveling at nearly 150kmph is no easy feat.

The task is made even harder when you can’t decide whether to turn left or right.

I’m happy to report that I did learn something valuable from this ordeal. When in stressful situations, you must be able to make difficult choices quickly. Remember, indecision kills.

Then again, I probably would have died no matter what I did, so really, the moral of this story is give up. Nothing you do matters.

My kind regards from the depths of Hell.

The Persistent Salesman - A Short Story

There were fewer things I found more distressing that a knock at my front door on an otherwise quiet Sunday morning.

Only the deranged were prone to getting up early on the weekend to embark across suburbia and make minor annoyances of themselves in pursuit of their meaningless goals. My only priority that day had been to leave a human-shaped imprint on my couch, but the inconsiderate fool rattling his stupid knuckles against the oakwood had put an end to those ambitions.

My mind raced for solutions to the problem standing beyond the door, but unfortunately, most of them were incredibly expensive or beyond my capabilities. I hadn’t paid enough attention during high school physics to learn how to build a forty-megaton nuclear bomb. I also didn’t have any uranium in my fridge or wherever one stores radioactive material.

I didn’t pay much attention during chemistry either.

The person intent on ruining my day must have then noticed the doorbell because a cheerful chime suddenly rung through the lounge room, and ironically made me much angrier than I was before. I stood up and stomped around the room in the hopes of kickstarting my brain, but it remained utterly devoid of ideas.

My shotgun, which was propped up against the wall next to my bookshelf, suddenly took on a luminous glow, but I quickly dismissed the idea coalescing in my mind. It simply wasn’t worth it. Shotgun rounds don’t come cheap. With a heavy sigh, I turned around, rubbed my eyes vigorously, and lumbered towards my front door, barely lifting my feet from the ground as I walked.

Standing on my porch was a slender and straight-backed salesman wearing a grey silk suit and a colourful striped tie. The satchel hanging by the man’s waist was overflowing with colourful pamphlets and what looked like a fresh change of clothes. His teeth, virtually all of which I could see owing to his beaming yet disconcerting grin, were so white that I momentarily shielded my eyes from the glare.

“Good afternoon, friend!” the salesman exclaimed, his smile unwavering. “How are you this fine morning?”

“Terrible,” I leered.

“Let’s see if I can’t turn your frown upside down,” the salesman said with an oddly timed and overly embellished click of his fingers. “Have you ever thought about placing your pancreas in cold storage?”

“No,” I stated flatly.

“Really? Not once?” the salesman inquired with arms folded and one eyebrow raised.

“I’ve more frequently thought about breaking every bone in my left foot with a socket wrench.”

“What if I were to tell you that freezing your pancreas, much like freezing your entire nervous system, increases its effective lifespan by a factor of three?”

“Hm,” I murmured, scratching my stubble-laden chin as I stared up at the sky. “What if I were to tell you that I need my pancreas to not die?”

“I’m so glad you said that!”

“Crap,” I muttered under my breath as the salesman drew a pamphlet from his satchel.

 “In addition to providing our customers access to some of the world’s most prestigious cold storage facilities, our company also offers several excellent replacement pancreases,” the salesman said, pointing at what appeared to be a steel pancreas attached to a set of wheels. “This one creates what we like to call ‘super enzymes,’ and it can be yours for sixteen easy payments of $2,999 plus delivery!”

“Alternatively, I could keep the pancreas I already have for the low price of nothing.”

“Do you mind if I take a blood sample?” the salesman abruptly blurted as though he hadn’t listened to a word I said. Without averting his gaze from me, the salesman took a needle from his pocket and held it in the air.

“Yes, I do mind.”

“But not much though.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t mind much.”

“What are—” I stammered, my jaw agape and eyes narrowed as I tried to make sense of what the salesman was saying. “I don’t—"

“Fantastic!” the salesman interrupted. He grabbed my arm and held it straight. “Don’t worry. This’ll only hurt a lot.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I screeched, yanking my arm from the salesman’s clammy grip.

“What can I say? I’m just really excited about freezing pancreases!”

“I’m calling the police,” I declared before stepping back into my house.

“They’re on our payroll.”

“Excuse me?” I glared.

“Hm?” the salesman murmured, his eyes wide, eyebrows raised, and lips clamped tight.

“What did you just say?”

“I get it now!” the salesman chuckled as he slapped his forehead. “Here I am trying to upsell you on a fancy pancreas when you may well be a man who wants an organ that simply gets the job done. I can appreciate that. I’m a chill guy.”

“Oh no!” I cried while looking over my shoulder. “My phone is ringing! I should really get that!”

“Your phone isn’t ringing,” the salesman aptly observed.

“Maybe you need to buy a pair of replacement ears,” I said before slamming the door shut.

The salesman wedged his hand and foot between the closing door and gritted his teeth as blood poured from the fresh wound on his palm. For such a lanky person, the salesman was surprisingly strong and irritatingly persistent.

“Sir, you really don’t want to miss out on some of these deals!” the salesman grunted as he struggled to pry the door open.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?” I shouted, veins protruding from my forehead and neck as I desperately struggled to close the door on the salesman.

“I just want you to consider whether your life could be made more whole by replacing your large intestine with a surround sound system!”

Setting Sail - A Short Story

I’m not ready to set sail.

Sweaty palms, encumbered breaths and nervous gazes abound on the deck on this ship. I can see that clearly now, and not just because the Sun is rising. Everybody is looking to me to guide us safely to our destination, and so they should. That responsibility falls on me. I alone chose to bear it, for reasons which are presently escaping me. I just wish I had the luxury of openly wearing my fears on my sleeves. It’s not as though I’m any more capable of telling the future than they are.

Our course isn’t clear, though the skies and seas are, and these conditions will doubtless cease to persist given enough time. Each change in the wind is chilling my skin and sending my teeth chattering, and it’s not that the breeze is particularly cold. I’m moving about but not accomplishing much of anything, as my eyes are firmly glued on the horizon, searching for the slightest change in the water. Any excuse would be welcome, for the ship isn’t even listing, and I still feel the overwhelming urge to expunge my stomach.

If only I knew more. I could embark on this journey with the knowledge that everything will be fine. That this ship will weather whatever storms should come our way. That the place we’re going to even exists. That we’ll get back home safe. Knowing such things would be wonderful. Unfortunately, I don’t.

I’m more familiar with this ship than my own house, but how much good will that do me when what awaits us out there in those strange and perilous seas is a complete mystery? Storms will almost certainly come, but I don’t know when, nor how strong they’ll be. Safe harbour will be difficult to come by what with the very real possibility that nothing awaits us on the other side of this ocean besides death. I can’t even be certain that my crew will make it there and back with their minds intact. This endeavour is wrought with uncertainty and sure to entail the surmounting of challenges never faced by mortal men.

I could always turn back if things became too difficult. There’s no shame in that. I can’t be expected to die for this. Sure, I may become the subject of scorn and ridicule, but I can better cope with mockery than water in my lungs. Why do I even feel compelled to do this when I have no idea what I’m doing? What’s wrong with me? Surely there’s enough to satiate me here. These lands have been plenty bountiful for as long as I’ve walked upon them.

What’s all this for anyway? I’ve been telling myself that all this is to be done in the pursuit of knowledge, but that can’t be it. Surely that’s not the reason. There must be something else informing my decisions. Is this greed? Am I simply seeking the approval of others? Or am I trying to emulate my betters? That sounds like something a fraud would do, and I am a fraud. I’m not my heroes. They were better than I could ever be. They ventured into the unknown with the fortitude of the gods. I have no such strength.

I feel like I’ve told myself these things before. In fact, I’m confident I’ve said such things of myself in the past, often when I was about to do something new and daring. Often when failure was a real possibility. I’ve failed before though, spectacularly on occasion, and now I seldom make the same mistakes. Some of my greatest accomplishments stem from those missteps. When I was a child, I struggled to tie a knot. Now I’m in command of a vessel.

Why am I doing this?

Others have told me why they think I’m doing this, but they aren’t me. They don’t know what I’m thinking, and they certainly don’t control me. My reasons for doing this may not have always been noble. Perhaps there was a time when I sought to embark on this journey simply to attain accolades or the favour of others, but I could change all that right now. I could choose another reason to steer this ship into the unknown, one which relies not on my success but simply my willingness to try, as I always have. Maybe that’s enough to see me through to this journey’s end.

Should I become lost, the stars will always serve as my guide. If the sky is to ever become concealed by clouds, and if ferocious winds stir up waves to pummel my galleon, I can always choose to stare through the rain, look ahead, and do my best to get there. The destination I have in mind may not be where I arrive. That’s not up for me to decide, but at the very least, I can propel myself onward for as long as my heart pumps blood. That’s my decision alone.

I don’t know everything, but it’s not in my power to know everything, and if it were, there wouldn’t be much of a point to all this. What is my purpose if not to endeavour to know that which I don’t, but might?

How else could I fulfill my purpose other than by setting sail?

On Political Commentary in Storytelling

Discussing politics right now seems like a worse idea than tapdancing across a minefield after guzzling two bottles of vodka.

Alas, politics is a lot like Earth’s gravitational pull; inescapable, unless you have rockets for legs.

Politics quite literally governs our lives. Being the mechanism that we use to organise society and establish the rules its participants agree to follow, there’s no denying that politics is an intrinsic component of civilization. One might go so far as to say that everything is political in one way or another, including the stories we consume.

I wouldn’t though. Kind of.

The role that political commentary plays in media has received renewed attention over the last few years. It’s always been part of the discourse, but whether due to inflamed political tensions or the amplifying effect of social media, lately the topic has arisen more frequently and been argued over more vociferously.

There’s seemingly always something to be said about the political implications of a trending television show, or a discussion to be had about whether old books written by people with outdated values should continue being printed and distributed. Some have even taken to questioning whether political commentary ought to be a component of any story on the basis that its inclusion may alienate certain readers or viewers.

As tends to be the case with every contentious issue, two diametrically opposed positions on the role of politics in media have coalesced. There exist those who believe that politics should be divorced from all media, and those who assert that politics is simply an inextricable component of art.

I’m not much of a fence sitter – mostly because my balance sucks – but I’ve always found this subject difficult to broach because it often arises when a politically loaded piece of media is released. Aside from swan diving into an active volcano, I can’t think of anything less enjoyable than debating politics on the internet, and it’s incredibly difficult to avoid doing so while discussing the purpose of political commentary in storytelling. On the subject itself, I do have a strong opinion, and I’d prefer to explore without having to reference any current political or social issues.

I’m of the opinion that those who believe all media should be apolitical or that all media is necessarily political have a habit of talking past each when voicing their disagreements. This is very counterproductive, especially when the truth probably rests somewhere in the middle.

Perspective No.  1 – Keep Your Politics Out of My Movies/TV Shows/Games/Media in General

I consider this perspective to be very – for lack of putting in the effort to identify a more apt adjective – underdeveloped.

This position is typically informed by two beliefs:

1.     The principal purpose of media is to entertain the reader/viewer, and therefore any reference to contentious topics hinders a work’s ability to serve as a vehicle for escapism; and

2.     Every piece of media is a product, and the reader/viewer is a customer, thus the creators of media ought to appease them.

There is a certain truth underlying these propositions. Many people consume stories to simply be made happier, and if a creator receives any monetary compensation in exchange for their work, the media they’ve created is a product. However, neither of these propositions are necessarily true.

All media is art. A narrative is a piece of art before it’s a product, and the purpose of art in general is profoundly broad. Facilitating escapism is one such purpose, but it’s not the only one, nor ought it be.

Art imitates life, and politics dominates our lives. It’s not surprising then that political and social issues are a staple of storytelling and have been for thousands of years. Stories with political undertones are not unique to the 21st century, yet some act as though this is the case, all the while ignoring the blatant political commentary present in the stories they claim to love, presumably because they agree with the commentary or have failed to even recognise it as such. I’ve seen certain war stories be heralded as devoid of political commentary. This blows my mind. Labelling a war story as apolitical is about as reasonable as calling the Empire State Building a calendar.

If one were to be highly uncharitable, it could be said that those who espouse this perspective are being dishonest, and that in reality they’re perfectly comfortable with politics in media so long as it conforms to their worldview. However, if I were to be more charitable, what I think many intend to say when they demand that media be apolitical is that they don’t want to be lectured. This is far more understandable. After all, nobody likes being lectured except for lecture enthusiasts.

Imparting values onto a reader or viewer by tapping into their empathy through characters and circumstance is the unique strength of storytelling. It distinguishes narrative from exposition. Stories can prompt people to reconsider their values by placing them in the shoes of a fictional person whom they’ve to understand and cherish. This feat is typically accomplished when the hand of the writer is invisible, not when it’s slapping you across the face with a point.

The way in which a story delivers a political message is worth scrutinising. The message itself can also be criticized, even if it’s well conveyed. These are perfectly reasonable positions to hold. Conversely, the idea that a writer shouldn’t even attempt to tackle a political subject because it may upset somebody lives next door to “apples are edible neutron stars” on Absurd Avenue.

Perspective No.  2 – Everything is Political, Therefore All Art is Political

This perspective probably arose from a place of nuance, which makes it even more baffling that it’s utterly devoid of nuance.

This sentiment is often derived from a few observations:

1.     Any conceivable subject or idea stemming from an interaction between two or more people is political because said subject is drawn from a society which is governed by rules, or from a person’s fundamental beliefs about morality and how society ought to be organised; and

2.     The creator of a work has values which will invariably influence what they choose to express and how they do it.

Politics is an inextricable component of society. That much is inarguable. It weighs heavily on all of us, and probably always will for as long as human beings disagree with each other on matters of extreme importance. Politics and society go hand in hand.

However, you were to suddenly find yourself alone on an island in the middle of the ocean, aside from being very confused as to how you got there, your story would nevertheless continue, and what exactly would be political about it?

If I were to do some vigorous stretching, I’m sure I could conceive of a way to frame this hypothetical island story as a commentary on mankind’s insatiable desire to plant its flag on everything, but frankly, I wouldn’t be able to squeeze out such an explanation without bursting into laughter.

If everything is political, the word is meaningless.

Politics has a definition, one which tethers it to concepts such as governance, groups, and power dynamics. There are stories in existence which don’t heavily emphasise or even feature any of these concepts, even if they are outnumbered by the stories which do. Narratives which focus on individuals, the human psyche, or very fundamental ideas such as existentialism can very well be apolitical, in part due to the universality of these topics. A story can make a point without being political.

I personally find political commentary in stories to be incredibly important, but I also think that stories which strictly appeal to universal principles are valuable, as well as media which seeks only to entertain. What I would ultimately appeal to is the idea that creators should feel comfortable with exploring whatever subjects they want, without being derided for having the audacity to write about contentious issues or chastised as cowards for trying to write non-partisan narratives. There are always going to be stories which challenge us, and stories which seek only to enthral us, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s fine.

If that’s not okay with you, instead of reading books or watching films, might I suggest placing a carrot on your desk and watching that instead?

Slaying Writer's Block

Writer’s Block is a terrible menace. A foul beast, one might say.

I’m by no means an extraordinary wordsmith, so I have to admit that when Writer’s Block kicked down my door, frothing from the mouth as it fixated it’s piercing black eyes on me, I froze. Silence filled the room, interrupted only by the heavy and wheezy breaths of the monster standing before me. The ensuing seconds felt like hours, but the only thing I managed to accomplish with that time was the saturation of my underpants.

Writer’s Block lunged towards me, leaving beneath itself a trail of saliva as it glided across the room with a rapacious look in its eyes. I’ll never forget that thing’s guttural roar, or the sight of its blood-drenched claws bearing down upon me.

My heart raced as I pressed my feet against my desk and threw myself backwards. The tumbling only stopped upon my hitting the wall. Writer’s Block clamped its ferocious jaws around my oak desk and reduced it to sawdust. By the time it was done devouring my computer, there was nothing left of it, save for a few scattered pieces of the motherboard.

Having extracted little sustenance from my desk, Writer’s Block turned its attention back to me. It dug its hind legs into my flooring, poising itself to pounce on me, though it did so without the grace of a tiger or the deliberateness of a hawk, for Writer’s Block didn’t have the bearings of an animal. It was much more of an angry, otherworldly thing.

I leapt to my feet and sprinted for the living room, with Writer’s Block giving frenzied chase. My sick parkour moves, which enabled me to traverse my house with the swiftness of a particularly nimble cheetah, did little to distance me from Writer’s Block. It tore through the furniture like it was made of butter.

As Writer’s Block crashed through the wall of my living room while letting out a blood-chilling howl, I grabbed the mat sitting between my couch and the TV and threw it across the room. I kicked open the small compartment built into the floorboards and retrieved my broadsword, which had been in my family for over a millennium. It glistened under the fluorescent lights dangling above us. One may argue it bore a mesmerising aura.

Alas, Writer’s Block was not mesmerised. Seizing the opportunity to strike, it took me by the leg and flung me into the TV. Shattered glass rained down upon my battered body as I picked myself up from the floor. Writer’s Block snarled as it pummelled the ground, punching clean through the floorboards. When I finally got to my feet, I charged towards Writer’s Block, swinging my broadsword over my head before bringing it down atop the beast’s. I managed to penetrate its leathery grey skin and wedge my sword into its skull, but that wasn’t enough to kill it. The beast continued swiping at me. It’s claws nearly tore through my chest several times as I desperately fought to pry my blade from its head. With one last firm tug, I drew my sword from the skull of Writer’s Block and a volley of blood was splashed across my walls. The monster shrieked as it lurched back and forth, wrought with rage and deliriousness.

I gripped my sword with both hands and pointed the blade at Writer’s Block’s chest. Sucking in a deep breath through clenched teeth, I charged the foul beast, screaming at the top of my lungs. Before I could fully comprehend the course of action I had just committed to, I came to a halt. My sword was poking through the beast’s back, soaked in its entrails. Writer’s Block crumbled before me, gargling on its own blood as it hit the floor.

Though the beast known as Writer’s Block was strong, ferocious, and determined, whether due to luck of skill, I ultimately prevailed.

And so you see, Miss Smith, I was far too busy slaying Writer’s Block this weekend to finish my book report.