His Defining Work

Writers block. “Not now”, he thought. With so much to say and now the words failed him.

He’d been a writer for over two decades. Had some pieces published in bottom shelf rags as well as a few articles in his hometown daily; The Effort. He had a piece on theater published in Variety and was very proud of it until a little introspection revealed that it was the venue rather than the quality of his endeavor that fueled his pride. Then the worth of it seemed to sour. To his credit, he’d always remained freelance instead of selling out to the need for a paycheck. He had the credentials, but writing was his passion and he knew that a job in the field would be only that; a job. A labor.

Now he sat before the monitor, fingers poised over the keypad and stalled. He’d gotten out of bed, taken a shower and shaved. He put on clean but comfortable clothes planning to write the most profound work of his career. A personal piece but powerful. He certainly had an amplitude of fuel for this piece, but the impetus remained aloof.

He got up and poured himself a small glass of Gentleman Jack (neat) that he’d been saving for a special occasion. This morning qualified, even though it was barely past 9:00 am. “it’s five o’clock somewhere,” he rationalized and sat down at the computer with fresh resolve and typed ‘November fourth, 2008…’ and there he sat, frozen in the moment as flaccid and non-prolific as a ninety year old cock.

Should he italicize? No, he had an aversion to italics as if they were some contrived quasi-neon billboard screaming; “Look at me! I AM WORTHY”. He knew it was just a personal idiosyncrasy but it stood there boldly, nonetheless.

He swilled down the bourbon (always his poison) and poured another. Back at the computer things were not burgeoning. So much he wanted to say; needed to pour out. He’d been thinking on this piece for some time and knew he couldn’t force it if it wouldn’t flow on it’s own. He peered at the clock on the monitor-9:38 am. He could still make it to work at the supermarket if he left now.

“Oh well”, he said aloud, “Maybe tonight the juices will flow”. He saved what he’d started, turned off the computer and straightened up his desk. He arose, grabbed his keys, patted the top of the desk and said, “Maybe later…”

Lastly, he opened the right top drawer of the desk and slid the Colts 45 caliber semi-automatic securely inside and closed the drawer.

His Defining Work

George Yesthal

Brodheadsville, United States

Artist's Description

Saved by the bell… or the lack thereof.

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