Blocked

So this is a one page short story I wrote in 2006.  It is largely unchanged although I’ve made a few edits to hopefully make it more readable.  Hope you enjoy it.

I sit in front of the word processor watching the cursor blink blink blink.  I sit in front of a beige Olivetti typewriter, a blank piece of paper rolled into it.  Nothing comes.  My fingers poised on the keys but I have no idea which key to strike first.  ‘I’ perhaps, but this is too personal.  ‘T’ for ‘The’, but then what?

Picking up a pen and a notepad I leave my room for the park, glad that the sun is shining.  There is a pleasant and calm feeling in the park; the green of the grass is sweet and tasty.  I sit on a patch and open up my notepad, pen ready to scribble.  A girl walks by in a short skirt and tight t-shirt.  I watch her walk by and I think she knows that I am watching her.  She thinks I’m a pervert.  She thinks I’m a stupid loser with nothing better to do with my time than letch at women in the park whilst pretending to work.  Whatever she thinks I continue to watch without shame during which time I am reminded of what I am missing: sex.  I want to fuck her yet I sit here not approaching her and not trying to talk to her.  Here in a city of millions I think she would find it weird if I approached her, she’d think that I was trying to rape her or something.  Or maybe not.  Maybe that is my excuse for my cowardice.

All this has got me distracted.  I run home, turn on the computer and put on pornography.  I think about taking off her t-shirt revealing her perky breasts that point at me.  I imagine seducing her and taking her to secluded place in the park where I fuck her under her skirt.  I watch a skinny girl pretending to be eighteen and lost sucks a giant cock in the backseat of a car.
I clean up, switch off the pornography and put on some music.  I open up the word processor again and I write a paragraph about how I am blocked.  I pick up the telephone and call the woman I’m in love with.

I love her.  But she is already coupled with someone else, some prick I want to kill.  He doesn’t like me either and I’d like to think it’s because she has a fondness for me.  I take pleasure in reminding myself of this as I ask her whether she is free for dinner tonight.  She says yes so we agree on a restaurant and a meeting place.  I offered to pick her up at hers but she declines and instead we are meeting at the train station.

We both say ‘Hi’ at the same time but I don’t hug her because I’m too shy and I don’t want her to know that I love her even though I do want her to know, but not like this.  I want it to be a grand romantic gesture, in the rain, she’s running away from me and I catch her up, tug her by the arm, she turns and falls into me, our eyes meet, electricity, and then a kiss – the kiss – that would be remembered for the rest of our lives.

She looks too wonderful for words and for this train station.  We make our way to the restaurant and any form of conversation escapes me.  She asks how my writing is going and I melt like an ice cream over a barbeque, my heart sinks so far down I can feel it below my stomach.  I tell her about my recent block and she seems genuinely concerned.  I love her.  Suddenly a rush of creativity overwhelms me.  I want to write about how great life is; how brilliant it is to love someone; how masochistic I am and most people are; how sadness can make me happy and how loneliness can make me feel loved.

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