Writer’s Block
This was the end. Johnston knew it. It had all come down to this—the final battle. Either he would win and finally begin the work or BJ would kill him and usher in the descent. They had charged at each other like lions warring over territory, both willing to kill.
The stack of papers on the desk was scattered across the room; the chair and lamp lay toppled. BJ had gained the upper hand, knocking Johnston to the floor and straddling him. His hands clamped around Johnston’s neck. Spit sprayed like a shotgun blast as BJ grunted, “Bawh! My way this time, Jonesy boy—just admit it, your stupid dream is our nightmare!
That voice had haunted Johnston for years, continually whispering reasons to give up. He managed to wedge two fingers from his off-hand between BJ’s death grip, but he could feel them beginning to bend, soon to break. He tried kneeing BJ in the gut but couldn’t gain enough leverage to deliver more than weak jabs. Why didn’t I exercise more, dammit? All those nights drinking, binging junk food, idling in his computer chair.
BJ grunted and smiled. “I’m doing us a favor. Do you want to spend the rest of your life stuck?
It’s better this way. Let it die.” Snap! Johnston’s pointer finger broke. The pain reinvigorated him. He recalled the countless nights he’d chosen excuses over writing, each one a brick in the wall between him and what he loved. The times he was depressed and negative weren’t the real him. He had believed in being a writer ever since he was a kid. Life gets in the way was just another excuse, he realized. He swore that if he got out of this alive, he’d work harder at what he loved.
Snap! His middle finger was useless now too. The pain surged as BJ’s grip tightened. Johnston couldn’t breathe. He felt a burning in his chest. A burning desire to keep the dream alive, to fight, to love. The burning intensified as Johnston remembered he hadn’t changed his shirt in days. The one with the nerdy pen pocket. Time to get creative, he thought.
Johnston dedicated all his energy to reaching the contents of the pocket. His fingers, trembling with pain, finally closed around Wordfyre’s familiar weight. He could barely see through the haze of oxygen deprivation, but his passion for the dream burned brighter than ever. “Block this you sonnaofabitch!” he roared, and with a final surge of strength, he drove the glowing pen into his attacker’s neck.
Black blood gushed from BJ’s neck, streaking the white papers, a harbinger that his ideas would soon flow again. His pain ceased instantly.
Now only one Johnston remained. The real one. He picked up Wordfyre and set it next to his keyboard, fixed the chair, sat down and began writing again.