darthnazgul
Smash Cadet
- Joined
- Jul 8, 2014
- Messages
- 52
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- darthnzgul
I wrote this bit of flash fiction about a year ago. It was, fittingly enough, brought about by a spot of writer's block while working on other stuff and I surprisingly wrote it in about half an hour. Thought I'd share. Feedback and advice welcome, of course.
The writer mashed the backspace key in anger. The unbearable sight of the blank page was complete again, with the chapter he spent the last month on having been deleted. He sighed, leaning back in the chair and letting his laptop and life's work teeter on the edge of his knee.
After moving out to the countryside, he figured an acre of land and a view to die for would be just the inspiration he needed. Yet the view was dampened by the typical Irish weather. It was impossible to even see the usually glaring city lights of Belfast off in the distance. He couldn't even hear the dogs daring to run around outside, as desperate for space as they were.
After setting the laptop back on his designated desk, also known as his bed, the writer clicked the red, looming X on the upper right corner. Another window appeared out of thin air, stating the following;
The document “Chapter 12” has been modified. Do you want to save your changes?
He spun his on-screen mouse between the save and discard buttons, hypnotised by them continuously highlighting again and again. He remembered hitting the save shortcut shortly before he began to delete all the phrases and metaphors he spent the last month on. Should he save it as the white void of doom that he turned it into?
The writer sighed, pulling down on his intellectual beard. Well, he didn't think it was intellectual, that's just what his grandmother called it. “Intellectual and handsome,” she'd say to boost his self-esteem. Maybe he could use that phrase. No, too perfect, he thought to himself.
After a full minute of hovering over his options, he decided to hell with it and opened up the internet browser. Maybe looking up pictures of cats for an hour could give him the inspiration he needed.
As it loaded up, he glanced to one of the boxes he still meant to unpack, right at the feet of his bed. He could see an old certificate for a contest he won sticking out, right behind a book that had published his first ever poem. Two artefacts of what felt like a lifetime ago.
The writer had typed 'cats that look like Hitler' into the search bar, but the laptop closed unexpectedly, almost chopping off his fingers before he pulled them away in fright.
There was a hand holding the laptop shut, and the writer followed the wrist, the forearm, the elbow and so on, all leading up to a young woman staring at him, frowning.
With a fire in her eyes, she pointed a finger at the writer and growled, “Listen here, you little ****. Get off your procrastinating ass, and sit your creativity ass back down.”
“What?” was all the writer could say.
“You heard me, or was I too complex for your simplistic-?”
The writer interrupted, “Who the hell are you and how did you get in my house?”
The woman turned her finger around to point at her face, “Don't you recognise me? You made this little ****stain of a face.”
The writer wheeled back in his chair before standing up straight. Indeed, he did recognise the little ****stain of a face. “No. No, this isn't real.”
“Of course it's not! Don't you know the definition of fiction? Huh, I like that rhyme. Definition of fiction. You should write that down.”
“You're her. You're the main character of the book I'm writing. WHAT THE HELL?! I mean, how could you be-”
“Yeah,” the protagonist began to relax as things seemed to get clearer for the writer. “Pleased to meet you, uh. . . what should I call you? Dad? God? Motherfu-?”
“Wait,” the writer interrupted, “tell me a secret.”
The protagonist raised her brow, “Excuse me?”
“I just want to be a hundred percent certain. Tell me something, anything, that only you and I would know.”
The protagonist thought for a moment, before snapping her fingers, clapping her hands and pointing at the writer. “I prefer vanilla ice-cream over chocolate.”
“Damn, you really are her. And I'm talking to you, who is really her. I have probably definitely gone insane. Then how come you're swearing like a sailor?”
“Well, have you ever seen Back to The Future? Where the main guy slowly disappears because he's changed his past so that he wasn't born?”
“Uh, yes.”
“It's a bit like that. Only instead of me fading from existence, my character traits that are disappearing. I'm nice in the book, but that niceness is fading away. Because you are giving up on the book! Wait. . . that's not like Back to The Future, forget I said anything.”
The writer sat back down, “I've not given up, I'm just taking a break.”
“Uh huh, and how long has this break lasted?” asked the protagonist.
“Since. . . Thursday.”
“You see? You're making up excuses when you should be making up plot points that don't make any sense.”
“I happen to think my plot points make a lot of sense,” said the writer as wiped the sweat off his brow. It felt like his brain was struggling to comprehend the conversation.
“But listen, I would love to continue, there's nothing else I'd rather do. It's just that I don't know how.”
“What do you mean you don't know? Do you know the ending?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how we get from A to B?”
“Yes.”
“Then what do you not know?”
The writer yelled, “I don't know! I don't know what I don't know!”
The protagonist took the laptop off of the bed and opened it up. “Cats that look like Hitler?” she whispered.
“It's an internet thing. What are you doing with my computer?”
The protagonist turned the laptop to the writer, with the document on the screen, along with the same window as before asking whether or not he wanted to save.
“When you look at that page, what do you see?”
The writer shrugged.
“What do you see? You think all symbolically and ****, what is it? What does this virtual sheet of white mean to you?”
“It means, it means. . . The end. I give up!”
The protagonist almost dropped the laptop as her grip loosened, before shoving it to the writer.
“Now, I'm not really the creative type, but you know what I see? I see potential. That's not a void, that's a canvas. That's not an end, that's a beginning. And you can turn it from one page into an infinity. Start fresh, maybe you'll find the missing piece you were looking for. Because if you don't, I'll shove this laptop so far up your ass, you'll-
“I get it, I get it!” The writer nodded. “Just please, stop swearing.”
“Sorry.” The protagonist smiled, “Did I just apologise? I'll take that as a sign that you'll do whatever you gotta do. Now then, writer, get writing. Or typing, whatever.”
The writer looked down at his laptop, resting on his knees. “I'm sorry too. About the procrastinating, and. . . well, just visit me again if you don't like the ending.”
“I'm sure I won't.”
The writer looked back up to say goodbye, only to see nobody else in the room. Just the city lights of Belfast appearing through the fog. Maybe he really was nuts, but it didn't matter.
He clicked save, and began to type right at the top of the page; Prologue.
The writer mashed the backspace key in anger. The unbearable sight of the blank page was complete again, with the chapter he spent the last month on having been deleted. He sighed, leaning back in the chair and letting his laptop and life's work teeter on the edge of his knee.
After moving out to the countryside, he figured an acre of land and a view to die for would be just the inspiration he needed. Yet the view was dampened by the typical Irish weather. It was impossible to even see the usually glaring city lights of Belfast off in the distance. He couldn't even hear the dogs daring to run around outside, as desperate for space as they were.
After setting the laptop back on his designated desk, also known as his bed, the writer clicked the red, looming X on the upper right corner. Another window appeared out of thin air, stating the following;
The document “Chapter 12” has been modified. Do you want to save your changes?
He spun his on-screen mouse between the save and discard buttons, hypnotised by them continuously highlighting again and again. He remembered hitting the save shortcut shortly before he began to delete all the phrases and metaphors he spent the last month on. Should he save it as the white void of doom that he turned it into?
The writer sighed, pulling down on his intellectual beard. Well, he didn't think it was intellectual, that's just what his grandmother called it. “Intellectual and handsome,” she'd say to boost his self-esteem. Maybe he could use that phrase. No, too perfect, he thought to himself.
After a full minute of hovering over his options, he decided to hell with it and opened up the internet browser. Maybe looking up pictures of cats for an hour could give him the inspiration he needed.
As it loaded up, he glanced to one of the boxes he still meant to unpack, right at the feet of his bed. He could see an old certificate for a contest he won sticking out, right behind a book that had published his first ever poem. Two artefacts of what felt like a lifetime ago.
The writer had typed 'cats that look like Hitler' into the search bar, but the laptop closed unexpectedly, almost chopping off his fingers before he pulled them away in fright.
There was a hand holding the laptop shut, and the writer followed the wrist, the forearm, the elbow and so on, all leading up to a young woman staring at him, frowning.
With a fire in her eyes, she pointed a finger at the writer and growled, “Listen here, you little ****. Get off your procrastinating ass, and sit your creativity ass back down.”
“What?” was all the writer could say.
“You heard me, or was I too complex for your simplistic-?”
The writer interrupted, “Who the hell are you and how did you get in my house?”
The woman turned her finger around to point at her face, “Don't you recognise me? You made this little ****stain of a face.”
The writer wheeled back in his chair before standing up straight. Indeed, he did recognise the little ****stain of a face. “No. No, this isn't real.”
“Of course it's not! Don't you know the definition of fiction? Huh, I like that rhyme. Definition of fiction. You should write that down.”
“You're her. You're the main character of the book I'm writing. WHAT THE HELL?! I mean, how could you be-”
“Yeah,” the protagonist began to relax as things seemed to get clearer for the writer. “Pleased to meet you, uh. . . what should I call you? Dad? God? Motherfu-?”
“Wait,” the writer interrupted, “tell me a secret.”
The protagonist raised her brow, “Excuse me?”
“I just want to be a hundred percent certain. Tell me something, anything, that only you and I would know.”
The protagonist thought for a moment, before snapping her fingers, clapping her hands and pointing at the writer. “I prefer vanilla ice-cream over chocolate.”
“Damn, you really are her. And I'm talking to you, who is really her. I have probably definitely gone insane. Then how come you're swearing like a sailor?”
“Well, have you ever seen Back to The Future? Where the main guy slowly disappears because he's changed his past so that he wasn't born?”
“Uh, yes.”
“It's a bit like that. Only instead of me fading from existence, my character traits that are disappearing. I'm nice in the book, but that niceness is fading away. Because you are giving up on the book! Wait. . . that's not like Back to The Future, forget I said anything.”
The writer sat back down, “I've not given up, I'm just taking a break.”
“Uh huh, and how long has this break lasted?” asked the protagonist.
“Since. . . Thursday.”
“You see? You're making up excuses when you should be making up plot points that don't make any sense.”
“I happen to think my plot points make a lot of sense,” said the writer as wiped the sweat off his brow. It felt like his brain was struggling to comprehend the conversation.
“But listen, I would love to continue, there's nothing else I'd rather do. It's just that I don't know how.”
“What do you mean you don't know? Do you know the ending?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how we get from A to B?”
“Yes.”
“Then what do you not know?”
The writer yelled, “I don't know! I don't know what I don't know!”
The protagonist took the laptop off of the bed and opened it up. “Cats that look like Hitler?” she whispered.
“It's an internet thing. What are you doing with my computer?”
The protagonist turned the laptop to the writer, with the document on the screen, along with the same window as before asking whether or not he wanted to save.
“When you look at that page, what do you see?”
The writer shrugged.
“What do you see? You think all symbolically and ****, what is it? What does this virtual sheet of white mean to you?”
“It means, it means. . . The end. I give up!”
The protagonist almost dropped the laptop as her grip loosened, before shoving it to the writer.
“Now, I'm not really the creative type, but you know what I see? I see potential. That's not a void, that's a canvas. That's not an end, that's a beginning. And you can turn it from one page into an infinity. Start fresh, maybe you'll find the missing piece you were looking for. Because if you don't, I'll shove this laptop so far up your ass, you'll-
“I get it, I get it!” The writer nodded. “Just please, stop swearing.”
“Sorry.” The protagonist smiled, “Did I just apologise? I'll take that as a sign that you'll do whatever you gotta do. Now then, writer, get writing. Or typing, whatever.”
The writer looked down at his laptop, resting on his knees. “I'm sorry too. About the procrastinating, and. . . well, just visit me again if you don't like the ending.”
“I'm sure I won't.”
The writer looked back up to say goodbye, only to see nobody else in the room. Just the city lights of Belfast appearing through the fog. Maybe he really was nuts, but it didn't matter.
He clicked save, and began to type right at the top of the page; Prologue.