Writer's Block (1281 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryLabels: Writer's_Block
Rating: 2 on 17 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Anansie (View user info) at 2004-04-05 00:29:19 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
"Writer's Block . . . ten miles. You've got to be kidding me."
David Hamilton was immediately intrigued. Ten minutes later, he took the exit that led into the town of Writer's Block, Georgia. It wasn't just the name. David felt pulled toward the town. Perhaps it was an omen. After all, David himself had writer's block. He was going to lose his contract. There was no way around it. He was probably going to get sued, as well.
For years he had been churning out novels and short story collections for Sands Fantasy, Inc. Tales of knights and dragons and fair maidens had been his specialty. And now, after bleeding him dry, they were going to drop him for some young newcomer. Night after night, he had sat in front of his computer and stared at the blank white page glowing on his monitor. After a few hours, he always gave up. He had taken to falling asleep on the recliner in front of TV with a glass in his hand and an empty bottle of Crown Royal on the end table. Shelley would trudge into the living room the next morning, her eyes raw and wet, and fix him with that trusting, hopeful gaze. But David never met that gaze, and eventually she stopped looking at all. One morning he woke and found his luggage by the door.
"You're taking a sabbatical," was all she said.
He hadn't argued. David loaded up the car and started the long drive to their summer home on Tybee Island. He never made it there.
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The air was thick, a hot, moist blanket draped over the town of Writer's Block. Small shops lined what must have been Main Street. David thought that every town had a Main Street, whether it was named that or not. A sweet shop, a general store, and a barber shop with a genuine red and white striped pole in the front gave the town an antique feel. He would have thought it all rather quaint, if not for the way the air seemed to hum with a faint vibration of strangeness. It was something he could not put his finger on. It seemed neither bad nor good, just ... weird. And the few townsfolk he saw on this first promenade into town intensified the feeling. David would catch them staring at him out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned to look, they quickly averted their gazes. An old man crossed clear to the other side of the street as he passed. David tried to catch the eye of a woman passing by. She contorted her face into an ill fitting smile, and quickly hurried on.
David had checked into a bed and breakfast owned by the town's apparent matriarch and gossipmonger, Harriet Greene. She had been very eager to tell him all about the citizens of Writer's Block, and at great length. He had barely managed to pry her hooks from him long enough to take this walk.
David stopped in front of the general store. He pushed the stained wood door open a little and heard the faint tinkling of a bell from above. The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight out, and that strange feeling was stronger than ever.
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The old man in the rocking chair was the first in town to look him dead in the eye. He wore a straw hat, and a ratty flannel shirt in spite of the heat. A cigarette, half ash, hung from the corner of his mouth. In his hands were a pocketknife and a small piece of wood, half of it carved into the shape of a heron. His beat up boots shifted back and forth, rocking the chair as he whittled away. He rocked and rocked, and David noticed grooves in the floor, worn by the rocker. David thought the lines wrought by the rocker somewhat resembled the two lines between the old man's forehead as he squinted up at him. The man's eyes seemed to measure him, and find him lacking. Nervously, David spoke up.
"Hey there, old timer."
"Hey deyah." The old man continued to stare.
"What's that there? A heron? Beautiful birds, eh?"
"Yeyup."
"So, is this your store? Nice set up you got here."
"I like to think so." (Only the old man pronounced it "I lack ta thank so-ah.")
The old man stared at him for a moment, nodded, and looked back down at his project in hand.
"You decide you gonna buy sumthin' let me know."
"Actually, I was hoping for a little information."
The old man humphed as though this was of little surprise or interest to him.
"'Dat so?"
"Yeah, I was wondering how this town got its name. Seems pretty unusual. I asked Harriet Greene-"
At this the old man humphed again and muttered something incomprehensible.
"-but that seemed to be the one subject she was close-mouthed about."
The old man looked back up at David. His eyes sparkled.
"Shuh, I'll tell ya all 'bout it. How 'bout pullin' up that chayuh thayuh."
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"Now, this town aint got a lot to be proud of now. But a long time ago, we had sumthin' nobody else could lay claim to. You know what dat was?"
"Uh..."
"Dat was rheterikal, son. Dat means you don' gotta answer."
"Do you mean rhetori-"
"You wanna hear dis or not?"
"Sorry, sorry. Go on, please."
"Anyways, like I's sayin' we had sumthin' nobody else in dis county had. A real-deal, honest ta God, published writer. Not jus' published, but purty famous, to boot. Hank Mather... ever heard tell of 'im?"
"Uh ... no. Sorry."
"You damn kids. Aint none of ya got no culture dese days. Anyway, dis' guy wrote himself a few books, an' moved away. Back den dis' town won't squat. You could walk out yo'house and take a piss off yo' porch, and swear ta God, dat stream 'ed cross da town line. It was small, get mah drift?"
"Yeah."
"Dat was rheterikal, too. Damn, kid. You don't catch on too quick do ya? You ride da special bus when you was a kid?" The man's gaze seemed to appraise him for a moment, his eyes sparkling. "We got a special kid down da street dat eat bugs. You eat bugs, boy?"
"Wha?"
"Talks ta trees too. You talk ta any trees lately, sonny?"
David opened his mouth to answer but was quickly cut off.
"Don' ansuh. Jeez. Back to da story. Back den dis town was called Johnsfeld. Aint got da same ring to it, now does it?" He paused to see if David was going to speak. David sat silent.
"You learnin'. So, anyways, dis Hank Mather, he becomes purty damned known 'round here. Comes to visit every now and den, and we all'd damn near faint when we saw him... dat's right, I was alive back den, dough I was only a littlun. Anyhow, eventually, we get word dat good ole Hank Mather's lost da touch. Eventually we heard dat he'd lost his marbles, too. Marbles or no, none a dat stopped him frum comin' back and buyin' up most of dah town. Nineteen twenty-four, it was. And he decides he's gonna name it after what was plaguin' him, most. Writer's Block."
"Wow, that's interesting."
"Boy, I aint done, and you aint heard nothin' yet. Now dis man decides he's gonna set up a monument right smack dab in da middle a town. A monument to his own dang craziness, I guess. De folks round here all went along with it, God knows why. Maybe dey thought Hank Mather, crazy or no, was needed to put dis place on the map. What is it with people and bein' famous. Love to get a piece of it, don' they, even if it hurts 'em in the long run. Though I feel da same 'bout women."
He chuckled at his own joke, and went on.
"Anyways, dis guy erects dis huge stone cube in the center of town, it looked like marble, but I don' know for shuh. An every damn day, he goes down to de town squayah and carves some new bit o' literatuh on it. You know, quotes from famous writers and such. He was obsessed with it. Even when he'd covered it, he'd go theyah. Day and night, he'd sit in front a dat huge stone block, just starin'. Only left to eat and do his business. He even slept in front of it. Den, one night, twas 'bout fifty years ago I'd say, a little girl looks out her window and sees Hank Mather, standin in front o de block as usual. Only dis time he's got both hands on it, an' he's just a yellin. Shakin' like he's bein' 'lectrocuted. She sees dis bright flash a light, and den, all a da sudden, he's gone. But dat won't da last we heard of Hank Mather. Every year a new book'ud turn up in 'is agent's mailbox. No return address."
"Well, that's certainly an interesting story."
"It aint just a story. Dat girl turned out to be a writer too. After ole Hank disappeared, she took to lookin' at dat block an awful lot. She'd look at it an' smile, like her an' it shared a secret. Ten years ago, she came back to town for the last time. An hour after I saw last saw her, she disappeared. But I'll tell ya, I don't get no evil feelin' offa dat thing. It just seems to draw people. People like you. You a writer, aint ya. It's wrote all over you."
David didn't answer. He was a bit freaked out by the old man's story. He figured the old man was pulling his leg, but this was all just way too weird. He had felt pulled here off the highway. He had felt pulled to this store. Now he felt like he was being pulled a little ways down the street. Toward the center of town. The old man looked at him with secretive eyes.
"It tuggin at you, huh? Go'on. You know you want to. "
David turned, and walked toward the town square. The air was thicker than before. He waded through it like he was treading water. His feet seemed like small anchors.
Finally, he reached the town square. And there it was. A large dark grey block. It was taller than he was, and only slightly less wide. The setting sun cast a strange glow upon it, giving it eerie life. The feeling it invoked was not fear, but curiosity. He moved closer, examining the inscriptions. There were hundreds of them. Some he recognized, some he didn't. The letters H.M. were carved into the bottom, set apart from everything else. Hank Mather. David stared. He stared for hours, looking at the words, feeling there was something there, hiding beneath the obvious. His eyes widened. Something clicked over, and he began to read aloud the words that were hidden within the words.
A few minutes later, a light flashed briefly in the center of Writer's Block, Georgia. It went unnoticed.
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Shelley Hamilton blamed herself. Day and night she wandered the house, wondering if her decision to send David to Georgia had been a bad one. She felt that it was, but everyone had been telling her these past few months that it wasn't her fault. How could she have known, they said. She supposed they were right.
This morning had been no different. Here she sat at the breakfast table, pushing the cereal around in the bowl, wondering what had become of her husband.
The bell rang. Shelley shuffled into her bed room slippers and slouched toward the door. She looked out the peephole. An old man stood there. He looked pretty harmless. Shelley opened the door.
"Hey deyah, ma'am. Would you happen ta be Missus Shelley Hamilton?"
"Um, yes, I am." She looked at the old man, curious. He wore an old straw hat, and a tatty flannel shirt, in spite of the summer heat.
"Heyah, I have sumthin for ya."
In his hands he held two things. A book, small, bound in leather. And a small wooden object. She took them. The small piece of wood had been carved into the shape of a heron.
"What's this?"
She opened the small book and on the first page, written in a familiar, bold script was this:
"For my darling wife, Shelley. I beat it. I beat the writer's block. I'm living the story. I owe it to you."
This had to be a joke. She flipped through the pages. One of his Dragonknight Series books. He'd been coming up with these stories since he was a child. But this was new. She had read all of David's books and this was completely unfamiliar. Had he written a new one? How could this be? Where was her husband and why had he not sent word?
A piece of paper was folded up in the book. She took it out and unfolded it. It looked like a rubbing off of some sort of stone, like the kind she had taken of Jim Morrison's grave when they had gone to France. Only this was lines from books and poems. Some she recognized. Others she didn't. Sections of the words were underlined. She spoke them aloud, and the hair stood up on the back of her neck. The odd syllables flowed from her mouth easily, in spite of the fact that they formed no discernible words. She had a sense that they were words, of a sort. A passage on the page that the paper had marked caught her eye:
"David wanted desperately to see his wife. He wanted to hold her in his arms and tell her everything he hadn't told her before being pulled into this place, the world he himself had created. But he knew it could not be. He only hoped she would get the message he had sent. That she would come to him."
Shelley looked up. The old man was gone.
She looked down at the bird. It had words carved in its belly.
WRITER'S BLOCK, GEORGIA.
H.M., 2004.
User Reviews
Submitted by monkeyswithguns (user info) at 2007-11-29 11:55:22 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by sicosemen (user info) at 2007-11-29 11:23:51 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Interesting read.
Submitted by Average_Dan (user info) at 2006-06-14 20:33:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This was great girlie!
Submitted by munkeypants (user info) at 2005-06-20 16:37:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Rads_wife (user info) at 2005-06-13 23:08:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
http://www.ubersite.com/m/68315
WINNER!!! WINNER!!!!
Submitted by screamfeeder (user info) at 2005-01-31 16:47:37 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by pen_name (user info) at 2005-01-02 18:11:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
If you don't rate this high, you either got your head up your ass, or your fixin' on sticking something else up there.
Submitted by Insanethemind (user info) at 2004-07-30 03:52:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
damn, that's creative. the dialogue was great, your description was even better and it was a very smooth read.
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2004-07-12 03:22:56 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Actually, if your eyes shut halfway through, you found it boring, or too slow, which I'll take as valid criticism. I like this story, but it's not exciting, I know.
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2004-06-10 15:37:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
So if you didn't read it, why bother reviewing it? If I don't read something, I don't take the time to leave some lame comment and a 0. I just click on something else.
Doesn't really matter though. It's just an old Ubermadness post.
Submitted by I_Have_a_Kristen_Fetish (user info) at 2004-06-06 12:12:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I was too long, my eyes went shut half way through... If I was being an ass I'd give give a -2.
Since when did I have pass my reviews by you for approval anyways?
Submitted by mystiamoon (user info) at 2004-06-06 11:57:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Fetish, don't be an ass!
Submitted by I_Have_a_Kristen_Fetish (user info) at 2004-06-06 11:40:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Too long...
Submitted by FilthyAssistant (user info) at 2004-06-06 11:13:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by mystiamoon (user info) at 2004-06-06 10:41:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Random Joe at 2004-06-06 10:35:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
That was grrrrrrrrrrrreat!
Submitted by Razor (user info) at 2004-05-19 17:38:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Fenrir (user info) at 2004-05-18 07:54:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment