“Why are the letters running up and down?”, a pair of five year old eyes looked at me in surprise.
“Because I want them to do some exercise.”, my disgruntled eyes were fixed on the frenzied movement of my blog page, my finger on the scroll button.
“Stop! You’re hurting the letters, they’re tired already!”
Sigh. If only he knew what a writer’s block is. I kept deleting old posts out of frustration.
“Can I tell you a story?”, he looked at me eagerly. “I have made it up.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Once upon a time”, his eyes sparkled brightly, “there was a poor girl. She lived in a dirty, old house. She sobbed and sobbed, she was very sad.”
“Did a pretty fairy come and help her?”
“No, but there lived a princess opposite to her house. The poor girl saw the princess wear beautiful dresses and shoes. She wanted them too. They were green and blue and sparkly. But she didn’t have any, so she went back to weeping. She thought that a pretty fairy would surely come to her rescue, or a prince, like in all your stories. But no one came. So after some time, she wiped her eyes, got up and went to play in the forest.”
“So she never wanted those dresses again?”
“No, she decided she’s better off without them. What if the large frog swallowed her seeing all the glitter on her clothes?”, he widened his eyes.
There was a sound at the main entrance. The little boy ran to the window and shouted with joy, “There she is! I can go and play outside now.”, and off he went barely mouthing a bye.
With a smile I clicked on the “new post” button on my blog.
Via Daily Post: Forest
He was later than usual. The night was very dark, it had also started snowing outside. All he carried was a cleaver in his hand. There was a slight wobble in his steps. Was he drunk?
The room was dark and quiet. He lit a candle, then took off his patched woollen coat and hung it on the peg. He lifted the hem a little- the blood had already dried and was almost invisible. Dried mud was stuck to the cloth. His coat smelled of fish, it was full of bloodstains. You cannot expect a butcher to take his coat off at work in this cold, especially when he can’t afford any other clothing. The stains were all dried and looked like rust. One cannot easily make out because of the dark wool and the dirt stuck to it. The stains looked more like a subtle pattern now, almost like a pretty design in the otherwise plain coat, he thought. He admiringly stared at his coat for a while. It looked pretty, he thought. Even if it smelled of fish and blood all day. He didn’t really mind the blood, he hadn’t decided about the fish yet.
He had placed the cleaver on the small table near the door. He looked down at it with the same air of admiration, feeling the dried trails of blood. He picked it up and walked to other door at the end of the room. A gush of ice cold wind hit him as he threw away the weapon he used to kill the man, and shut the door.
Snowflakes steadily gathered on the sharp metal outside.
His blog posts became infrequent. The latest draft wasn’t touched up for a month. Storey after storey, the high-rise completely covered the orphanage and the adjacent park from his view.
The builders successfully created a permanent writers’ block for the paralysed poet.