Writer's Block

The damp heat of late August oozed through the air, making Roy sweat. Red streamers tied to the electric fan’s plastic housing flapped in the minute breeze spewing from the overworked appliance. Roy sat at his mahogany desk, staring at the blank screen in front of him.

One, two, three, four, five…the cursor blinked, taunting him. Somewhere after twenty-three he lost count and started again. One, two, three, four… With the exception of the flapping streamers, the cramped office was still. Somewhere behind Roy’s head a fly hummed a tuneless song to the cadence of the winking cursor. He tapped his cheap blue bic against the desktop, giving an audible rhythm to the jeering of the little black line that flashed on and off against the pristine white background of his latest story. One, two, three…

Roy sat at his desk, thinking but not thinking, hypnotized by the emptiness. Ideas swirled in the hidden depths of his mind but refused to surface. All he needed was one. A series of faint clinks accompanied by amplified buzzing interrupted him and pulled him from the trance, breaking the computer’s electronic spell. He stood to investigate the noise.

The fly had wandered into the open mouth of his pickle jar of pennies and now flew in frantic circles, bumping against its confines to make the tiny clinking sounds. Roy stared at the insect as it tried to escape through the glass several more times before finding the exit and fleeing through the window.

Roy capped his blue pen and sat at his keyboard. One, two… The cursor teased him. Roy smiled and tapped his fingers against the keys, breaking up the droning tempo with the staccato beats of his words as they flowed from his idea. All he needed was one.