- This is one of many entries I am writing from prompts I found online. The prompt can be found at the end. I advise reading it after finishing the short story.
Craig was having trouble with the latest part of his novel. Not yet a novel. Even in the most basic form. He had ideas in his head. He knew they were good. This was his fifth book, the previous four having been well received well by critics and writers alike. They were two central themes this time and he could not think of how to link them together. He could see the end in his mind’s eye, but the bridge there was a blank space.
He needed to get out of the city. Sometimes being among the towering buildings, the clogged sidewalks, and the busy coffeeshops helped fuel his writing spark. Other times it stifled it. He loved the outdoors and tried to get out of the city a few times a month. He was feeling that itch. It might be useful in getting his creative juices flowing.
He loved this part of the county. Stereotypically beautiful, yet no less striking, with a panoramic view of the sea, bay, and city. It wasn’t strange for him to come here to help freeing his mind. When he reached the apex, had slowly looked around, breathed deeply for a few minutes, he sat in the grass. He remained like this for several minutes as strands of thoughts came and went.
Sometimes when ideas came at him quickly his stomach would take a nervous, excited feel to it. That was happening now, yet any notions were sluggish and mediocre. The sensations took on a gurgling feeling, and quick mild pangs. Within minutes he was doubled over in agony. His intestines were twisting into fierce knots. His stomach a rollercoaster of contractions. The twists continually more frequent and longer lasting than the lulls.
He had been lying on his side from the time the pain had become unbearable. He sat up bolt right just as his stomach won. He spewed vile smelly and tasting puke on his shoes. He had no break. The heaving would not relent. It seemed to go on forever. Things eased, although the painful vice-like fists continued to squeeze inside. Now it was time for his intestines to revolt. He was still sitting fully clothed. Agony, heat, and liquid all appeared in his pants. His boxers. Oh God. It kept coming and coming. It was almost impossible for him to think. Something inside, his subconscious perhaps, told him to cry, scream, and quit, all together.
His body finished emptying itself. From both ends. Just then the vile waft of his bodily excretions hit him hard. He wretch several times quickly. He got it somewhat under control by leaning to the side to inhale, trying to use his mouth, and not looking at himself. He realized many twisty, dark ideas had popped into his head as he shat. And have left as quickly. He hadn’t even noticed them at the time. None of them were formed but he knew there was huge potential in some of them.
He sat in his excrement and vomit as words, thoughts, and feelings disappeared. His notepad was in his bag, mere feet away. On the dry, clean, grass. He tried to see how he could make it there without disaster striking. He realized disaster had already struck. There was shit and puke everywhere. Did it matter what he did? His bag might get some bits of vileness on it. It didn’t matter. He lurched for the bag, knowing if he tried to find the best way to proceed, he would never do so. He fumbled at the straps that held it shut. It wasn’t until he managed to open the bag, reach in, and get the notepad out, that it was too late. The last great ideas from this disaster of an outing had gone.
As he tried to figure how to get back to the car and home, he realized he was more upset that his inspiration had disappeared, than the affair itself.
You have a writer’s block breakthrough at the worst possible moment.