I have writers block.
So that’s why this is bad.
I don’t have ideas.
Sorry I haven't posted in so long. I think its been about a week. Here is a poem:
I Wonder if you understand
What the music is.
To you it must seem
like the daily beating,
And we say that practice is torture.
But what about you piano?
For the pain you feel must be real
and not imaginary.
I wish that you could hear the music I play.
For then you would hear what music is.
I hope that someday you will know what music is.
And finally be at peace.
The air was crisp and cold. Summer had rolled a gutter ball this year and the temperature hadn’t gone above sixty degrees in all of March and April showed no sign of changing this. A light crust of snow covered the grass. Tufts of green sprouted out of the white snow.
I tapped my pencil against my hand and thought. April break was finally here and already I was bored out of my mind. All of my friends had flocked like migrating birds south to the warmth of the Bahamas or Florida. I had been left in complete solitude to wallow in misery and boredom.
My mom- who had been sick of my complaining about having nothing to do- had given me a list of ideas of things to do over break. I had chosen writing simply because it was the activity that involved the least room cleaning and community service.
I’m not a good writer mind you; actually I’m quite bad. My book report on Tom Sawyer had come straight off the back cover. As a matter of fact I hated writing.
So, here I was, sitting at a desk, with a clean sharpened pencil in my hand, and a blank notebook that leered at me from the desk. I leaned my chin on my hands and stared at the wall in front of me. I had nothing, nada. Everybody always says that the best way to be good at writing is just to write, but how can you write if you don’t have any ideas to begin with.
I needed something, a spark, inspiration. I stood up and walked out of my room.
I opened the 320 million dollar door and entered a lobby area where an old woman sat behind a desk. She looked up and squinted at me from behind horn-rimmed glasses.
She spoke in a gravely voice, “Are you here for the betting match?” she asked softly.
I nodded and then said, “Yes, I am.” I reached into my jacket pocket and took out a green chrysanthemum. The flower’s bright hue contrasted brilliantly with the black of my dinner jacket.
I handed the delicate flower to the old woman and waited while she examined it and turned it over in her hands. Finally after about three minutes of examining, she brought the chrysanthemum to her nose and sniffed deeply. She nodded and handed the flower back to me.
“Everything seems to be in order. It’s the 12th floor and don’t even try going to any other floors,” she said looking at me from over her glasses which dangled precariously off her long pointed nose. “If you do, you will be escorted off the premises immediately.
I took back the chrysanthemum and walked towards the elevator. I pushed the up button and immediately the doors of the elevator opened with a cheery “ding”
It was four o'clock in the morning and the sky was the color of the inside of a grapefruit. Jack rested his head on his hands and looked around at the people who sat near him in the large auditorium. On his right sat a large man with red hair. He wore a green and white striped polo shirt that said Apple Blossom Country Club in red letters. He was reading a book called "Arnold Palmer's Secrets to Golfing" On Jack's left sat a woman with straight black hair. She was currently yelling into her iphone, "What do you mean you broke the heating Ralph? You know what I've had enough of you!" She hung up.
Jack sighed and turned his gaze back to the auditorium stage. Jack and all the other people in the room had come for the undertaker's convention. A daylong event where the newest and best coffin technology would be unveiled. Around him Jack heard nothing unusual, mostly jokes about death. He heard from behind him, "Wow, run over by a steam roller, that's pretty impressive. But I have better, I had a client who was eaten by a rhinoceros." This was greeted by many oos and ahs. Finally the ceremonial coffin was rolled in and out of it popped the host of the event. He happily proclaimed, "Welcome to the annual undertaker's convention!"
The host's name was William A. Huffer but the undertakers thought that was too formal and called him "Huff 'n Puff Huffer" Mr. Huffer continued, "It’s a great honor to be here for this joyous event. Now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for.” Mr. Huffer took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and opened it. “The winner of the award for best coffin goes to…” He paused dramatically, “The Wooden Reaper, Embalm Studios,” shouted Mr. Huffer.
The man who had been bragging about his unlucky clients eccentric death jumped up and pumped his fist. As he walked down the aisle toward the stage a voice came over the loudspeakers, “This is the first Mortis Award for Embalming Studios coffin. They have been nominated three times.” The crowd clapped and cheered as the man climbed up the stairs to the stage. The man mounted the stage and was handed his Mortis award, which was a golden trophy in the shape of a coffin.