Writer's Block

She sat at her desk, the glow of a computer screen reflecting off her glasses. The walls of the small studio apartment were blank, the room empty save for a fold out bed in the corner and the desk. Stacks of papers were scattered over the floor--the individual chapters of the novel she was in the process of finishing. How long had she been working on this last chapter? There was no clock in the room, and the one on her computer had been purposely covered by the window of her word processing program. Progress had been slow but steady up until now but the last chapter came to a screeching halt several hours ago. Her professors in college had warned her about writer’s block and now her impending deadline was the foremost thought in her mind. Out of frustration she pushed back from the computer, her wheeled office chair coming to a stop when it rolled off its plastic mat and onto the carpet. She stood up and paced around the room, slowly navigating the skyscrapers of papers. She took a few deep breaths and ran her hands through her hair, a nervous habit she had developed many years ago. This time it felt different--something was wrong. She withdrew her hands from her head and brought them in front of her eyes. The room was lit only by the computer screen, and in this darkness she thought for sure her eyes were playing tricks on her. Her fingers appeared to be fused together. She tried to move her fingers individually, but they would only move as one. A wave a panic and disbelief raced through her head like electricity through a circuit. Once more she tried to move her fingers, but her whole hand just clenched up into a fist. When she tried to open them nothing happened, they had become two solid cubes of flesh. She let out a shrill cry as terror overtook her. She stumbled backwards, tripping over a stack of papers. Instinctively she tried to bring her arms out to arrest her fall, but her elbows were now attached to her sides. Papers were thrown everywhere by the force of the impact as a dull moan of pain slipped through her lips. She tried to stand up, but could only make it to her knees. Her arms were folded around her torso and she leaned her head to the ground. She wanted to scream but a waterfall of flesh was cascading down her face, sealing her eyes, nose, and lips. The flesh continued to pour down from just below her hairline, oozing like hot wax into every crevice of her body, which was now curled into the fetal position, until she was encased in a cocoon of her own skin.

Three weeks later, after a call from the publisher, the owner of the apartment complex opened her apartment. There in the middle of the room, amid heaps of disorganized papers, was a solid, lifeless block of flesh.