Banished and Ripped from the pages of an incomplete story. So how does it finish? Is it a bump in the road or a dead ending?. When you arrive you’ve got two options. Keep on trucking or drive off the cliff. If you stay here too long it can become detrimental, which is where I jump in.

I don’t recall how long I’ve been here, but I have a purpose. The space here is limited and it’s my job to get rid of the writers who are wasting their time with a story that’s not going anywhere. It can be difficult to do sometimes, but some people need the push off the cliff.

Than there are those who need to be saved. They are the ones who are on the brink of an excellent story, but struggle to keep it going. It’s my priority to do everything I can to get that story out alive.

The Writers Block can be unpleasant . The setting here is dark, smokey and poorly lit. The alley is narrow and the road at times can look endless. In the center of the block is a street. Surrounding the left side is what looks like a sidewalk, but instead of it being made of concrete it is made up of broken glass. Cigarettes and cigar butts sprinkle on top of the glasswalk like dog shit. It reeks of smoke and boos and I’m a contributing factor. I took the last puff of my cigarette and flicked it to the left.

The further I walk, the more real it gets. Like the old man sitting in the wheel chair over there. Can you see him? Can you hear him?

Cough..Cough…

He had a horrible hack and suffered for a long time. The crippled man had to have brain damage to be talking to himself the way he did. In his lapse was an old typewriter collecting dust. The letters on it had faded. His bottle of whiskey was nearly empty and he was out of cigarettes.

I walked up to him and looked deeper into his features. His hair was grey and his face was cut up. He wore a jacket similar to mine. He had scars all over his body and he reeked of alcohol. I handed him a handkerchief from my jacket pocket. I had never seen the man before, but he looked familiar. He was coughing up blood.

“It’s time”, I told him…

“But I’m not ready”, he responded

“We’ve given you all the time we can. Our space here now belongs to to someone else”. I told him

“I don’t want to go”, he replied.

” Your health has deteriorated. You no longer make sense. You wrote something very special and that will never be forgotten, but now you have lost it”, I told him.

“But I can find it again”, he said.

I placed my hand on the man’s face and wiped away his tears with my thumb. I pressed my hand against his shoulder and he disappeared in front of me. I felt his body turn from flesh to nothing.

Darkness followed his empty wheel chair. His time had come. The word on the block said he wrote a magnificent piece of literature, but was never able to write anything else.

It was literally written on the street after he vanished, like the words on a tombstone, only this message was bitter sweet. It didn’t say loving husband or anything like that.

A little further up I noticed more debris in the street. It looked similar to the clutter on the left side of the block. So what’s on the right side, you might ask?

On the right side is A long way down. I don’t like getting too close to the edge, it scares me.

I suddenly lost the feelings in my legs and fell to the ground. I laid there lifeless for what felt like an eternity. I woke up to the sound of a squeek coming from behind me. I could hear it getting closer. It was the wheel chair. The fall hurt my body and I struggled to lift myself up.

Once I maneuvered myself onto the wheel chair I was surrounded by liquor bottles and used Tobacco products all over the street. I picked up one of the bottles of whiskey and took a sip. In the center of the mess was a beautiful woman who was crying. I could see her eyeliner dripping down her cheeks. A broom fell from the sky and I instinctively knew that it was my job to clean up, however I chose not to. I ignored the woman and looked the other way.

As I continued to roll down the street I felt sad and Confused with what was happening but over time things got a little easier.

The view from the left side of the street had changed. I could see a clear side walk now and next to it was dying grass, which was better than none. The light here was a bit brighter and my overall mood improved. As I continued to push forward it started raining grants and franklens. Cash was pouring down from the sky and into my lap. It started piling up to the point that it became difficult to see anything else. It was hard to maneuver my wheel chair through all the stacked dollar bills. As I struggled to cross over I felt a force coming from behind.

‘Let me help you’, A woman said.

The voice was ever so pleasant.

“Thank you”, I responded.

She pushed from behind and started making conversation.

“So what are you doing here”? She asked.

“I’m taking care of the writers block”, I told her.

I took a sip from the bottle.

“Did you ever think it could be you that needs taken care of”? She asked…

The poor of money began to dwindle. I wondered what she was doing here. Could she be assisting me to get at my money? Before I had a chance to ask her, the push from behind came to a stop. She came from behind the chair and sat on my lap.

“I was here for you before that”, she said.

I hadn’t said anything and it creeped me out, but I just went with it. She was so beautiful, and it was hard. It was good to know that things downstairs were still working. She wore scrubs and had long black hair which was as dark as her eyeliner, which stood out for some reason. Her skin was beautiful, her body was fit to perfection and that feeling of puppy love went through my body the second I saw her.

While she was looking into my eyes, it felt euphoric. She looked like she wanted to ask me something.

“Is it better to have written lovely once than to have never written lovely at all?” She asked

I sat there dumbfounded. I’m not sure why she asked me this, but I took a moment to think about her question and answered her.

“Yes”, I responded…

“He’s ready for you now”, she said

“Who”?, I asked.

The woman got up from my lap and began to jog away.

‘Where are you going’?, I shouted!!! Who’s ready to see me? I asked

“Say cheese”, a man said.

A bright light flashed and threw off my vision.

A bald man with a lab cote had taken a picture of me with a Polaroid camera. He was standing on the sidewalk.

“What the hell are yah trying to do, blind me or something”? I asked

He then began to shake the picture for a few seconds and took out a pen and wrote something on it and handed it to me like a prescription.

“What is this”? I asked

“Your future”, he said.

The picture was unclear. It had not fully developed. At the bottom was a couple words that said, “Your Future”. I put it in my pocket.

“Who are you and what are you doing here”? I asked

“I’m a psychic”, he said. “I’ve been sent here to give you advice on what’s left of your future. I need to show you something first”. He said.

The man walked up from behind me and grabbed onto the handles of my wheel chair.

“What are you doing”? I asked him…

He began to redirect me to the right side of the block.

“This isn’t funny, I told him. What the hell do you think your doing?”, I asked him nervously.

He began to push me towards the cliff

“STOP”, I Shouted!!!

I tried to wave my arms around and stop the push. I tried punching the guy.

“Stop resisting, this is for your own good”, he said.

I grew frantic and terrified with this ending. My Thoughts were racing and I was wondering if I was going to be let go. Perhaps this guy was replacing me. Maybe I wasn’t doing my job here well enough. I never enjoyed getting rid of anybody, but to be on the other end of it is also disturbing in its own way. I’m sorry to talk so much, but it is said in the last moments of life, this can be a coping mechanism used to handle the fall.

As I inched closer the cliff I held onto the chair for dear life. It was as if I was on a rollercoaster. The chair acted like a cart. It began to go over the edge and gave me the sensation of looking down.

I screamed for the life of me in what felt like the last moment. At the bottom I saw a broken man. I couldn’t tell if he was dead or not, but there was blood everywhere.

The chair than went into reverse and I was no longer facing down. Instead I was on level ground a foot away from the cliff.

In front of me, appeared a man. I could see him from behind. His hair had a touch of grey. In his back pocket was a pen and a notepad.

“Are you ok”?, I asked

“I cant take it anymore”, he said

“What’s wrong”? I asked

“This place is driving me crazy, he said. I have no purpose here”, he continued .

“Are you a writer”, I asked him

“Yeah, what’s it to you”, he asked

He wouldn’t turn around to face me, but his jacket stood out.

“Then you belong, I said. I’m here to help. What’s your story about”? I asked him

“This dreadful place. I’ve spent years trying to tie everything together, but there’s no end in sight”, he said.

The man was crying. I could hear him panting like he was about to make a decision he regretted.

“Everything’s going to be all right. Hold on sir, I’ve got something for you”. I said

I took my eyes off the man for one second and reached for my handkerchief to give the guy. As I reached for it in my jacket, out came the Polaroid picture. Only this time the photo was clear. It was a picture of the old man from earlier that I took care of. It said “Your Future” at the bottom. I’d forgotten that my handkerchief was already given away. As I took my eyes off the picture, I watched the man jump.

“NO”!!!, I shouted

Everything went black and I felt like I had the spins.

I woke up to a bright light shining in my face. It was the Psychic from earlier. He was wearing the same lab coat and he was shining a light in my eyes.

“He’s awake”, the man said.

I was terrified. I tried to move my legs and couldn’t.

“What’s going on? Where am I”? I shouted…

“It’s OK”, he said.

“I can’t feel my legs!!”, I shouted

I started punching my arms around in fear.

“Sir, you need to calm down”, he said.

I continued to jerk.

“Keep him still”, the man said.

A woman held me down. It was the same one from the writers Block. The man took out a syringe and shot me up with something.

“This is for your own good”, the man said.

I began to calm down and tried to make sense of it all.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”, he asked.

I was in a daze, but still coherent.

“I was at work and the strangest thing happened. I recall taking care of business and than I lost the feelings in both of my legs”, I responded

“What’s your profession”, he asked?

“I work at The Writers Block, and you were both there with me”. I said

“Sir, you’ve been in a coma for years. This is the first time we’ve ever met”, he said.

“What are you talking about”, I asked?

“My nurse and I have been taking care of you for quite some time now”, he responded

They looked at me with pitty.

“There was an accident”, he said. “Can you remember”? He asked

“I dont know”, I responded.

I thought of the man who jumped.

“You jumped off a cliff”, he said. “Do you remember why”, he asked

“I don’t”, I responded.

“We need to talk about your future”,The doc said. “There was a note found in your back pocket when we found you”. He began

“It said you were a struggling author who had a terrible case of writers block. The note said you suffered from depression and we’re an alcoholic. The note ended with you saying you no longer have a purpose”. He continued

“You have suffered major brain trauma and you will never walk again. The brain damage will only get worse if you continue to abuse alcohol. Your getting old and you’ve got to clean up your act if you want to enjoy the years you have left. “I know this is a lot to take in, so I’ll give you a minute.”, he finished.

It was lot to take in. I had contemplated biting off my tongue to escape this hell. It was the nurse and her beauty that kept me alive.

“How do you keep such a good figure? I asked.

“I jog”, she said

“Your jogging around my heart, is what your doing”. I replied

“Awe”, she said. “Your sweet”.

“So you don’t remember our conversation”? I asked her

“This was our first”, she said.

“That’s not how I remember it” I responded.

“You should write down what you remember. It can help improve your memory.”, she suggested

“Maybe later, I’m getting drowsy. It was about love”, “yeah know”. I told her.

I saw her smile before I closed my eyes. She was a great woman who took care of me. She gave me her heart, despite my broken legs and nasty scars. She inspired me to write again and some of my memory came back and a bad habit of mine resurfaced.

I woke up next to that woman. She jumped out of bed, got ready for work and left the room. Near our bed was a desk. Inside it was a drawer where I hid a liquor bottle under my clothing. I took a swig of it and heard a knock. I rushed to stash the bottle away.

“You going to finish your story “? She asked

I pretended not to hear her and turned my body facing away from her in case she walked in.

I heard the door creek open and I began to snore in hopes that she would leave and she left.

On top of the desk was a typewriter she got me. I had a few loose ends to finish up in order to conclude my story. Not far from it was an empty wheel chair in which darkness followed

The Writers Block