Writer's Block

Greetings all. Here is another scrap of writing that I recently put through the editing process and ended up with a short story. I am enjoying this compression of plot, even if it costs me pages of description. It's easier to stay on task and finish a thought with such condensing afoot. Enjoy!

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Standing at the front door, Myron fidgeted in the waking day’s groggy wakening. Writer’s block, he frowned as the thought danced through his mind as it had danced for the past 48 sleepless hours of his crestfallen life. Myron had been on a writer’s spree up until this point, THE point, actually. He couldn’t close this novel, not on his own as it was no longer his own.

Arnold was a childhood friend by trade, but in Myron’s case, Arnold was his publishing agent. Their relationship soured in the weeks surrounding Myron’s first accomplished publication, which through shrewd tactics and ventriloquism throughout the chain of unknowingly participating companies, found its way into Myron’s damp basement by the crate-load. The novel was a flop, and in turn Myron was a flop, and both of them were forever branded by the publication world as unsavory and dishonest fellows.

If it weren’t for that bastard Arnold, Myron wouldn’t be here right now, toiling over the most irrelevant of minutia. Myron needed to finish his redeeming novel; he needed to make everything right. Myron fidgeted again as the sun peeked through the low hanging trees in front of Arnold’s sleeping home. Turning the knob quietly, he watched as a sliver of golden light expanded on the foyer floor. Myron needed to end this novel. He needed to right his wrongs, and as he tightened his grip on his raised sledgehammer: he knew exactly what changes were in store.

Warm Silty Retribution.

The title of this piece was originally 'Father', which was changed after i decided it was too vague and after a few re-workings of the dialect and composition, the title 'Warm Silty Retribution' popped into my head. I will have the reader know I am not Southern and do not possess a Southern accent. Anyway, here is the first post of my blog; I feel it is one of strong emotion and abundant with symbolism. I can only hope you (the reader) will enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. Also note that this particular piece is the product of revision, if you would like to see the original copy I can provide it via post or private message.

Warm Silty Retribution

‘Bout nine to five.

Most of my neighbors and friends are gone,

Gone to higher grounds.

They’ll soon see it too.

Th’ water don’t care,

It’ll fill up their rooms like booze in a frosty mug.

Ruin their crops and livelihood inna snap.

Father don’t care, he don’t care ‘bout us or our lil plans.

Reckon he’d do it anyways,

As I see it, father’s above reason and emotion.

What my cousin’d call ‘indifferent’.

Even as I sit here in my rocking chair, pistol in hand-

I come to appreciate th’ moments he’s left me with.

The moments before me and him have words,

If that’s what you’d call ‘em.

Down comes the water, eatin’ up my farm,

Snapping trees like twigs, faster than any man could axe ‘em.

It’s a good thing father comes round here every so often,

Reminding us kids just who’s in charge down here.

Not really here to spank us nor pat us on the back all kind like.

Cause I do believe he would be round these parts—

Even if we were never birthed.

Though most’d tend to pray for otherwise.

We built a wall, using our heads.

Tryin’ to keep father back, trying to make him ring our doorbell.

Bout’ eight to five now, I reckon that wall’s six feet under.

Rain don’t care, it’d sink a boat if given the chance.

Won’t be long now, I can hear them boards in the porch,

Snapping an’ creaking.

Soon it’ll be me, silty dark water filled with splinters-

And this pistol.

Thinking back, I dunno why I even brought this damn thing.

Not gon do much now.

An’ the only option left even a man such as myself is too proud to take.

Armed to the teeth yet uselessly naked

We can bang on his doors all we want—

Beggin’ him to forgive our sins and take us back in.

He’d give a real scorned look for a good while and take us in,

Washing our cuts and scrapes asking us the same question each time:

Boy, what did I tell you? Did you learn your lesson?

An’ each time, we’d say yes sir.

Then trot back out into the yard.

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I shared this piece with a few peers who found the recurring theme of father to be associated with a God-like figure or even Mother Nature. I tend to agree with them and would like to further point out the idea of such a powerful force being present regardless of our existence. I am wholly against most modern/popular religions due to the fact that they are no more means of crowd control than they are never ending sources of profit by those who realize the first statement. Keep that in mind, I do not support religions nor make an argument against it, but what if "the man upstairs wouldn't have done anything different if humans were not present?"