On the Writer’s Edge
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, BJ—your dream’s just a nightmare!”
That voice had haunted him for years, continually whispering reasons to give up.
Johnston 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 you a favor, Johnston. 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 to keep the dream alive, to fight, to love. The burning intensified, and Johnston remembered he hadn’t changed his dirty 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 dirty shirt’s pocket. His fingers, trembling with pain, 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.
“The dream will never die!” he roared, and with a final surge of strength, he drove the glowing pen into BJ’s neck.
Black blood gushed from BJ’s neck, streaking the white papers in jagged contrast, as if ink and page could only meet in shades of grey. The pain ceased instantly. Johnston rolled to his side, sat up, and regained his breath.
He picked up Wordfyre, set it next to his keyboard, righted the overturned chair and began writing again.