Writer’s Block

He swept his hands across the table—pen and papers and books went flying down to the ground. He was breathing heavy and his heart was pounding like some kind of tribal drum. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and he sat down on the ground. March reached inside his breast pocket for a stick of cigarette. He placed it between his lips and he closed his eyes. “Shit,” he uttered. He looked around at the mess he just made and he uttered another “shit”.

With his eyes closed and an unlit cigarette stuck between his dried lips, March forced open his mind’s eye. There, he saw, a man clad in full body armor. The armor glistened under the intense rays of the yellow red sun. In the knight’s left hand was a sword of great length and on his other hand was a shield in the shape of a kite. On it was the insignia—a black colored cube. The knight raised his visor and March saw a smile painted on the knight’s deathly pale face.

“Hullo March,” the knight said in his raspy voice. “You look like shit.”

March did indeed look like crap. He hadn’t bathed in over three days, his shirt was crumpled and his hair was a mess, his eyes were red from lack of sleep and his head felt like it was being split open by a jackhammer. To say that he looked like shit was an understatement. Still, March managed to allow himself a smile. “I’ve you to thank for that,” he said.

“Well, I’m just doing my job,” the knight said in reply. He then pointed his sword at March’s face. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“I want you to get out of my head,” March calmly said. “I want you to give me that piece of paper in your pocket and to let me get on with my life.”

The knight gave a laugh. It sounded like nails scraping a chalkboard. March felt the hair on his arms stand.

“You know I can’t do that Marchy boy,” the knight lowered his sword, “I’ll be out of a job if I let you do as you please. I’ve got two mouths to feed you know and food don’t come cheap nowadays.”

March focused his mind. He opened just a crack his Imagination. Out of nothing, a sword appeared in his left hand. It was shorter than the knight’s but just as deadly, if not deadlier—it all depends on the strength of March’s Imagination as a matter of fact.

The knight smiled again. “Tut, tut, you want to get your ass kicked again?”

“Not this time. I want to write and you’ll let me write.” In March’s other hand a circular shield appeared. A pen was painted on the face of the shield. “I’ve faced your lot before and I’ll do to you what I did to them.”

The knight opened his mouth in an ‘O’ shape. “Oh I assure you Marchy boy, I’m in a different league than the small fries you’ve battled in the past. Me? I’m one of the big boys you see.”

March knew what the knight was saying. He could see it, he could feel it. The knight was more powerful than the others. March wasn’t sure, to be honest, if he could defeat the knight. But he had to try. There was simply no other option. March tapped into his Imagination once again. His body was suddenly covered in polished white armor. He lowered his visor and the knight in front of him did the same.

“I’m going to enjoy this Marchy boy,” he heard the muffled voice of the Writer’s Block say.

March gave a shout and he charged. Writer and Writer’s Block clashed. The sound of their swords’ song filled the mind of March.