I sat there, like so many times before. I sat there, at that table, with a piece of paper in front of me. It was blank. So, so very blank. In many ways, "blank," meant hopeless or sad. Vacant or empty. You see, I don't usually think about new paper in such a melancholy manner. It usually means something good for me. But that day was different.

The paper was staring at me that day, daring me to write as I have done so easily in the past. But I couldn't. For some reason there was something amiss. Was it me? Was something wrong? The mirror didn't show anything to differ from the previous morn. And still, throughout this confusion, it just laid there, taunting me. A gaping white hole on my table, with a pen gently laid parallel to it. To tell the truth, it was quite pretty. Lovely blue lines running horizontal across the page, a single red standing obstinate to the left. Yet even so, it was hideous.

My pen too—there was also something wrong with my pen. I had picked it up, and put it down. And picked it up again, only to place it back, and for a third time I lifted it, then it dropped from my grasp once more. It was slippery, sliding from my fingers as butter does. By the time I had finally obtained a decent grip on it, it refused to place words on the page. I couldn't figure what was wrong. Maybe the pen and the paper had become magnets and decided to repel each other—at least, it felt like so.

An idea of what was going on wormed its way into my head. This was mutiny. Yes, of course. It all made so much sense. Why else would my pen and paper be so stubborn?

I sat at that table for an hour or two, trying to gain control of the situation. However, I had begun to doze off, and something odd began to happen. Something bizarre.

I blinked awake to find that there was some kind of thing growing on my paper. Upon this paper (the hated, hated paper), was a little grey dot, getting bigger by the second. I watched in horrified fascination.

After a minute, it began to take the shape of what looked like a square. As I look back on it, I'm surprised that I hadn't tried to touch it, the idiot that I am. But I guess I was too absorbed in the sight to think of such a disturbing action. Anyway, right before my eyes, it had then started to grow out of the paper. It had become, to my immense shock, three-dimensional. It was now a cube.

The cube was grey and had little specks here and there, as if it were made from stone. I looked closer at the alien object. To my astonishment, I realized that it was stone. Wait—not stone. It was made out of cement. It was a cement block, growing out of my paper.

I sat up straight, and leaned far away from it. I could not believe my eyes. This was impossible. Had I become truly mad? Did I have even more so than suggested amount of insanity an author should have? I didn't know exactly what was going on, but whatever was happening, it definitely struck fear in my heart.

By this time, the cube had become large enough so that the paper from which it had sprung was now hidden underneath. I quickly stood up from my chair (and almost knocked it over in the process) and backed away until I was flat against the wall. The block was growing larger and larger, faster and faster. The table on which it sat moaned and complained. My breath was quick.

I shut my eyes tight against the unsightly thing. I took a new lungful of precious air, and slowly, oh so slowly, squinted through them again. In sudden shock, they shot back open wide. It was gone. The block was gone!

Hesitantly, gingerly, I took a step forward and looked at the place the block had previously been, moments before. It had completely disappeared. The pen and paper sat exactly where they had been prior to the episode (or maybe they hadn't moved at all,) looking neat, tidy, and satisfied with themselves. I searched for any evidence of the affair, but I found none. The table itself didn't even present verification.

Suddenly I sat myself back down in my chair, quickly picking up my beloved pen. I regarded my paper lovingly, and with immense satisfaction, I began to write. Because the block was gone.

The block was gone.

~end~