Writer's Block
By Jacob2

A man sat at his desk with pen in hand.

There was a piece of paper in front of him. It was blank, for his creative juices just would not flow, for he had a terrible disease: writer’s block; a plague among writers. He stood up. He walked back and forth, back and forth. For this was one of the cures of writers block. Nothing. Nothing flowed forth to his mind, or to his pen or paper.

He turned to his bookcase, were he kept the greatest: Dickens, Pratchett, Tolkien. He read and he read, but still the block remained. His world spun and spun and spun; it fell down around him.

The next day, he was condemned to a writer's camp, where a doctor announced “Inspiration the life of writers, a man has contacted the plague of writers.” The crowd gasped in shock, if one man had got it who would be next?

In a room the man could not think straight. “Writers block, writers block” danced on his tongue. He sat and he stared but still nothing came forth. Until it happened. His pen slipped and he stabbed his hand. A liquid came forth, so red and pure. It broke the writers block curse. He put pen to paper and his juices came forth. They flowed and they flowed. He did not stop until he finished it. The story, the story; life, death and love.