Writer’s Block

I hate writer’s block. I think it’s dumb. I get so far into every single project I work on, and then BAM!, I can’t seem to churn out anything worth while. I don’t know what to do to rid myself of it, other than just keep writing, but what’s the point if everything I write is crap? AARRGHH!!! It’s just SO frustrating! I want to finish my screenplay, and it’s just sitting there. It makes me want to punch myself in the face. I totally would, if I thought it would help, but I think it would mostly just get blood on my keyboard. If you are at all creative and you are reading this, please, help me out. Show a brother some love. Give me some ideas.

Short Story

Russ Chisholm eased his overweight frame down onto a bench. He set his shopping bags down next to him, and rubbed his sore knees. It had been forty years since he had been honorably discharged from the Marine Corps, after taking a bullet in the shoulder during a training exercise. A less fortunate-and less wealthy-man would have been told to suck it up and return to training. But Russell Hector Chisholm, III was told to return to his regular life in Georgia, living with his parents and womanizing his way through all the eligible (and ineligible) women in the Atlanta area.

Nine years later, at the age of 27, he graduated from Harvard with a degree in political science. He stayed in Boston until 1981, when, at the age of 32, he moved back to Atlanta and secured a position as Lieutenant Governor of the state of Georgia. The Governor, Richard Wellesley, had been a golfing buddy of his father, and had taken the younger Chisholm under his wing as a personal favor for the elder Russell’s help in winning the election.

Russ served under Wellesley for two terms, before becoming Secretary of Defense once Wellesley became elected President. Chisholm had cited (and exaggerated) his Marine record before being confirmed by Congress. He and Wellesley served two terms together in that capacity as well before they both retired to lucrative carreers as public speakers and authors, preaching to the world their brand of politics and morals.

Currently, Russ was waiting for his wife Lisa as she spent his money, doing the Christmas shopping for their children. They were staying at their winter home, just outside of Denver in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. The mall, a circular, indoor, outlet fueled monstrosity, was packed on this mid-December day. Chisholm’s children, Kimberly and Russell IV, were waiting back at the six bedroom house just up the hill for their friends to pick them up for their daily snowboarding trip. Russ was just as glad to be away from them as he was to have been in the arms of Tracy, his “winter mistress,” the night before.

He was cotemplating an excuse to see her again that night when his cell phone began to ring in his pocket. As he looked down at his Nokia, he realized it wasn’t actually ringing at all. There was another phone in his bags. He pulled it out and read “Not Available” on the caller ID.

“I think I may have ended up with this phone by accident,” he said in his southern drawl as he thumbed the “Answer” button, “who are you trying to reach?”

“I’m trying to reach you, Secretary Chisholm,” the voice said on the other line. “Steven Clay is after you, and he already has your children. You need to get up and start walking, now, towards the bookstore at the end of the corridor.”

Chisholm didn’t hesitate. The name Clay had awoken all sorts of bad memories from his time in office, and the images that now raced through his head were not ones that were pleasant. He left the shopping bags and raced away from the store where his oblivious wife still shopped, as if his short legs could carry him away from his dark memories. His trench coat flapped behind as he pushed his way through the crowd towards the mega multi-media store that still stood nearly a hundred yards away.

“Where is he?” he screeched, fear causing his voice to tremble with every syllable.

“About fifty feet back,” the gravely voice answered. “He sent one of his goons. The bald one in the suit.”

Russ paused just long enough for a glance back, and there he was. The man was easily 6′4″, his bald head gleaming in the florescent light. He was wearing a red tie and black suit under a long black duster, and his eyes were concealed by dark sunglasses. Black leather gloves covered his hands, one of which was reaching into his inner pocket.

Chisholm turned and almost ran into the bookstore, finding an aisle near the back that was devoid of shoppers.

“What do I do now?” he whispered into the phone. His face was bright red and sweat poured down his back. He could barely hear above the sound of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.

“You die,” said the husky voice from the phone. Only now, too late, Russell realized the voice came from behind him. He felt a large boot crash into his knee, collapsing it, as a hand pulled back on his shoulder, bringing him crashing to the thick carpet in a barely audible thud. The man with the voice, who now stood over Russell with a sick grin on his face, was Steven Clay. Clay reached down and took the phone from Russell’s hand, as Russell stared in bewilderment at the face of his killer, the man he had wronged from so long ago.

“Your children and wife will be fine,” Clay told the stunned Chisholm, “And they won’t miss you.”

He slammed the spine of a thick hardcover book hard into Russ Chisholm’s sternum, instantly driving him into the throws of cardiac arrest.

As Clay dropped the book next to his head, Russ realized it his book, The Chisholm Art of War: The best offense is a good Defense, that had caused his demise. The extreme irony was lost on Chisholm as his vision became first blurry, and then blacked out all together.

***

Steven Clay smiled to himself as he exited the book store, dropping both cell phones and the gloves he was wearing in a trashcan on the way. As he exited the mall, he saw the bald man in the black suit, arriving to his place of employment at the same time he had every Saturday that Clay had reconned this mall before choosing it. The bald man walked into the suit store and went immediately to the back of the store to put away the extra clothing necessary to ward off the extreme winter cold.

Clay allowed his smile to turn to a chuckle as he himself entered the bitter cold from the warm mall. One down, he thought to himself.