Lights OutMature

An ironic short narrative about a writer (with writer's block) comparing themselves to a prisoner within their own imagination. The writer feels as if they will never be able to write freely again as every original idea has already been penned.

The keyboard clicked furiously as the rain pounded against the windowpanes and the sky was imbued with dark ominous clouds that rolled in menacingly, threatening all the life that had been insinuated upon earth. The trees were swaying in the wind, conversing in laughter at the onslaught of coarse and violent hands, which ripped apart each statement that was thundered out loud. A slap on the wrist, as each alibi was shot down with a glare of repeal and disgust which allowed for the trembling haziness of his face, a face with innocence etched in, falter downwards toward a demise voided with uncertainty. A dark pit awaited him, one with nothing but the dark energy that surrounded his aura, perhaps a bed, maybe a toilet, and of course those metal bars that locked away any thoughts; writer’s block he called it. Several pairs of eyes scrutinized his figure, his face, as if looking for any trace of demonic spirits that ravaged his soul, emitting from him the last flickering flame, a candle diminishing in thought. The darkness engulfed his mind, pulling at his views and penetrating his nerves till he twitched like a light bulb that was about to die.


Inaudible whispers were encircling him in a blanket of displeasing accusations that reverberated against his skull. The constant whirling noise of the clicking was driving him to insanity, and the banging of the hammer seemed to ensue the constant narcotic drone of harsh needles that were thrashing against the window. However, he could not stop the keyboard and the scene, which was flashing, in front of his diminutive gray eyes.


The typewriter stopped, the clerk looked towards the podium, and my story of fate ended. A writer I was indeed, one of an ill-demised tale, a story of life filled with sorrow as the cursor stopped, never bound to continue to write freely.


“Guilty,” the judge and jury confirmed.

The End

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