His Unfinished Stories

Jack sat at his desk, pen in hand and pad at the ready, prepared to release a bombardment of words. His room was illuminated only by the lamp, lighting the desk fully but providing very little to the rest of the room. What was illuminated of the floor shows dozens upon dozens of crumpled up papers, scattered sporadically throughout.

The papers were fragments of stories and poems, one about a woman struggling with the decision to get an abortion, another about a man on his deathbed. One was about a picnic in the park between two lovers, the other about a marital spat ending in death. All of them and so many more laid crumpled on the floor, abandoned by their own author. The soft carpeting of the room provided these lonely characters and unfinished stories little comfort.

Jack had been struggling to finish any of his writing lately. Every time he sat down to write, he began a story that went no where, or a poem with no rhythm at all. His words didn't flow like usual, and his pen seemed impotent. Nothing he put down on paper satisfied him; to him, it was all crap.

The love stories didn't capture her essence enough. The poem about his mother just didn't sound right. The war story just couldn't find an ending. Everything ended with the sound of torn and crumpled paper hitting the floor.

Jack just stared at the empty pad of paper that sat before him, practically mocking him. His pen danced in his hand, but never made contact with paper. It merely shook in Jack's grip, his impatience with himself getting the better of him. He couldn't stand it when this happened.

In frustration, Jack threw his pen down, sending it bouncing across the desk. He put his head in his hands, and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. He looked at the digital clock on his nightstand, which told him it was 3:16 AM. Despite the hour, he knew he would not be able to sleep; her image danced across his mind whenever he closed his eyes.

Usually, writing something would clear his mind of these thoughts, and he would fall straight to sleep once he had finished a piece. But tonight wasn't one of those nights. Jack had dozens of stories crumpled about him, all of them unfinished; he chose not to finish them.

The abortion story ends with the mother in the clinic, telling her unborn son "Goodbye, Jack." The poem about his mother would close with "And even though I've put you through hell, my love for you rings as true as a bell." Everything could've been finished, and he could've slept, and ignored those images of her. But he didn't want to.

He didn't want to lose the images of her beautiful face, of her sexy body. He wanted her laugh to echo in his ears, her smile to dazzle him well into the wee hours of the morning. Writing would eliminate those thoughts, and he wanted anything but that.

Jack decided that it was high time to handle it. He would write one last piece, and then he had to proclaim his love. At long last, pen made contact with paper. Fluid, smooth motions danced across that magical pad, painted with words from a dedicated author. His brow furrowed and sweaty, he continued to write, until his heartbeat began to hasten.

At last, he finished the piece. He threw his pen down, this time in satisfaction. He turned off his lamp, and laid down to sleep, seeing a bright tomorrow.

---

Jack woke up full of anticipation. He knew today was the day that he would finally tell her how he felt. He sat down at his desk and turned the computer on before he went to prepare for the day.

Like many, Jack checks Facebook before doing anything else. The first thing he saw was Lisa's status update: "Moving in with the BF, getting really serious! Maybe going somewhere further? ;)"

Jack couldn't believe how stupid he was. He should've known this was was gonna happen; it always did. He could never get a girl like her anyway. She was too perfect for him. Come to think of it, he would never get any girl. He was just a damn fool who wrote about women rather than trying to talk to them. He didn't stand a chance.

Jack went to the bathroom, and reached up into the medicine cabinet. He took the painkillers the doctors had given him after the knee surgery a year ago; they were still good, surprisingly. He emptied the bottle into his hand, and popped them into his mouth. He turned on the faucet and filled a Dixie cup with water, swigging it, and taking the pills down with the water.

Jack laid back down to sleep, and never woke up.

Reviews

[Divyanshu Kachhap]

The end was SHOCKING !!!! totally touched

[Will]

I honestly didn't plan on that ending, but that's where the character led me, so I took it there. Glad you were touched, thanks for reading :)

[Divyanshu Kachhap]

my pleasure :)

[Black Gypsy]

This was very beautifully. Your sentences flow, you have exceptional grammar, and you make it all so descriptive and very realistic. The way you described writer's block is great because that's what it actually feels like, and the metaphors you use are unique and amazing.
But you do also repeat some of the words a lot, like desk, as Rita's already stated, so you might want to go back and fix it, and your verb tenses change a bit, but other than that, I found it amazing. :D

[Will]

I just did that "desk" edit, as well as try to correct those tense changes. I really put some thought into the depiction of writer's block, so I'm glad you appreciated it. Metaphor is also something I try to use whenever possible. Thanks for reading, and I'm glad you enjoyed it :)

[Rita L. Sev]

Will, this is a superb story, though so sad. First, you write of writer's block so well (we've all been there!) and your metaphors throughout are perfect. The one thing on your character's mind is the very thing that gets his pen flowing again, and becomes his ruin - love is like that.

Some technical suggestions - stick to past tense verbs consistently unless it's in present-tense dialogue. Also, in the first paragraph, you use the word "desk" a lot, hindering the description of the room. Try:

Jack sat at his desk, pen in hand and pad at the ready, prepared to release a bombardment of words. The room was illuminated only by Jack's lamp, lighting the desk fully, but providing very little to the rest of the room.

Really well done!

[Will]

That verb tense shifting is a problem I've been dealing with for the longest time, but it always gets me. Thanks for pointing it out. The "desk" kink is kind of irksome at second glance, so I'll go make those changes now. Writer's block and broken love are two of my most visited hells, so I figured they deserved some recognition. I'm glad you liked it, and thanks as always for reading!