Writer's Block by Jeanne Buckhalter

Writer's Block - Jeanne Buckhalter
The blank page stares at me accusingly. “Fill me,” it seems to hiss. “Erase my awful blankness with words.” I look at it wondering what words, where to start. The blank page sneers back at me. “Hack,” it seems to say.

Beneath my fingertips the keyboard says “Go away, stop your pounding on me.” Its whine sounds in my ears, “Haven’t you punished me enough?” I pick up the keyboard and turn it upside down, whacking it gently against the desk to loosen the cat hair and cracker crumbs before spraying it with canned air. The can, icy cold in my hand, seems to resent being woken to blow the detritus from the keyboard.

The wolves on the monitor stare back at me, their yellow eyes inviting me to leave this world, this body and run with them wild and free. We sing as we run in the hunt, the frosted grass crunching under the pads of our paws as we dash across the moonlit wood. I sigh, human, too human, and feel only the hard chair under me.

Faithfully the CPU sings softly to me, occasionally whispering as it goes through its Arcanum. “I am here,” the fans sing to me, “Feel my heat, hear my heart beating.” The case is cool and hard against my hand, solid, dependable. A quiet gurgling as it does some mechanical thing deep within almost seems to appreciate my gentle stroking.

The cat looks up from her nest on the floor. She stretches and yawns before padding softly to the office door. Aki could care less if the page is blank, or the computer runs, or the wolves on the monitor stare. She only cares that she needs to use the litter box, visit the other cats, have a drink from the water bowl and perchance a nibble of kibble and wishes to leave the sanctum.

I sigh. My duty is clear. The page will not be filled. The keyboard will be silent. The wolves will run without me. The faithful CPU will shut down properly, leaving me with a lonely pang as it finally clicks off. My bed calls. Too bad the dog is already on my pillow.