No. 91 May, 2009
Writer's Block
by Bo Drury
“Dad-nab-it!” came a frustrated cry, sheets of paper flew across the room and fluttered to the floor near an untidy pile scattered around a wire trash-basket. An aged figure of a man slumped dejectedly into a desk chair as he ran his fingers through his wiry white hair. Stubble of whiskers covered his troubled face as he gazed out the window into the gloom of an overcast day.
Oblivious to the antics of the young kid goats playing in the pasture, he brooded over his failure to come up with a story he was to write. He glanced toward the calendar near his desk and noted once more the big circle drawn around October 5, the deadline for his story.
Sighing he rose from his seat and with a noticeable limp walked to the open fireplace across the room and reaching out to the heat warmed his stiff fingers. It was time to take a break. Taking his pipe from the mantel he packed it with aromic contents from the Prince Albert tin and using a small twig from the edge of the fire lit it; puffing until he was satisfied it was going well.
As he scanned the bookcases before him, among the many volumes was an old one, frayed and dog-eared from many readings, by Mark Twain. Reaching for it and settling into an easy chair near the warmth of the fire, he opened to the first page. A smile came to his face as he read about Aunt Polly, for he too had an Aunt Polly. He chuckled at the description of the young hooligan in her charge and how he used and tricked his friends into doing his work, and then there was Jim, he had known him, too. How parallel his life had run with this tale written so many years ago.
He dozed as he read; drifting into a dream of days long past, days of happiness, when he was a lad of ten on his uncle’s farm, back in the hills of Oklahoma.
“Why are you doing that for?” questioned a timid voice.
He turned and looked into huge blue eyes filled with tears.
“Why am I doing what for?” he asked, unsure of what he had done to distress the little blonde girl watching him.
“You just killed that worm.” She answered accusingly.
“Well how else do you think I can go fishing if I don’t hook the worm?” He replied in disgust. Avoiding her tearful face he lightly tossed the hook out over the water.
Watching thoughtfully she inquired, “Will it hurt the fish when he bites the hook?”
Uncomfortable now, he shrugged his shoulders, “Naw, fish don’t have feelings.”
“How do you know that?”
Angrily he turned to her, “Who are you? Go away, you’re scaring the fish.” Turning his back to her he watched the red float as it bobbed gently on top of the water.
Girls, they ruin everything. He could feel her watching him. He secretly hoped the fish didn’t take his bait while she was there. He turned once again, fully intending to say something mean to her, but when he saw the tears running down her cheeks he was suddenly tongue-tied. Pulling in his line he packed up his fishing gear and as he got up to leave she followed. They walked along in silence. He gave her a sidelong look.
“What’s your name?” he asked, wondering where she came from.
“Amy.”
She was younger than him and small. He suddenly felt very protective. Reaching out his hand he said, “Come on, I’ll walk you home.” Her hand was little and soft, he looked at her face, she smiled, it gave him a funny feeling in his stomach. He smiled back.
Awakening and opening his eyes they focused on a small portrait across the room of a laughing young girl in a white dress. A signature at the bottom read,
Love forever, Amy.
With a smile lingering on his face, he sat the old book and cold pipe aside and rising he walked to his desk with a spring in his step. Settling down in the well worn chair and glancing again at the photograph he began to type with renewed vigor. He had his story, thanks to Amy and Mark Twain.
copyright Bo Drury, 2008