“Now, what I’m thinking of is, people always saying “Well, what do we do about a sudden blockage in your writing? What if you have a blockage and you don’t know what to do about it?” Well, it’s obvious you’re doing the wrong thing, don’t you? In the middle of writing something you go blank and your mind says: “No, that’s it.” Ok. You’re being warned, aren’t you? Your subconscious is saying “I don’t like you anymore. You’re writing about things I don’t give a damn for.” You’re being political, or you’re being socially aware. You’re writing things that will benefit the world. To hell with that! I don’t write things to benefit the world. If it happens that they do, swell. I didn’t set out to do that. I set out to have a hell of a lot of fun.” — Ray Bradbury

“Writer’s block is my unconscious mind telling me that something I’ve just written is either unbelievable or unimportant to me, and I solve it by going back and reinventing some part of what I’ve already written so that when I write it again, it is believable and interesting to me. Then I can go on. Writer’s block is never solved by forcing oneself to “write through it,” because you haven’t solved the problem that caused your unconscious mind to rebel against the story, so it still won’t work – for you or for the reader.” — Orson Scott Card

“I encourage my students at times like these to get one page of anything written, three hundred words of memories or dreams or stream of consciousness on how much they hate writing — just for the hell of it, just to keep their fingers from becoming too arthritic, just because they have made a commitment to try to write three hundred words every day…" — Anne Lamott

“…Then, on bad days and weeks, let things go at that… Your unconscious can’t work when you are breathing down its neck. You’ll sit there going, ‘Are you done in there yet, are you done in there yet?’ But it is trying to tell you nicely, ‘Shut up and go away.’” — Anne Lamott

“I learned to produce whether I wanted to or not. It would be easy to say oh, I have writer’s block, oh, I have to wait for my muse. I don’t. Chain that muse to your desk and get the job done.” — Barbara Kingsolver

Luke spun through the stations on the radio of his truck as he rolled down Highway 22 during his evening commute. Rock. Pop. Country. It didn’t appear to matter. All of them seemed to be singing the same sad tune to him. You’re looking for love in all the wrong places. He sighed, reaching to turn it off. No point in repeating the obvious. Suddenly a news bulletin broke in “We interrupt this program to bring you a special announcement, local authorities have issued a warning regarding recent murders…” Luke pushed the off button before the announcer could finish. He wasn’t in the mood for more gloom today.

"What?" His face was painted with confusion. Is he serious? Did he not hear me? Is he mocking me? His penetrating eyes seemed to look straight through me. Piercing, that's the word. It sent a scythe through my chest, gouging everything in me. A hot rush ran through my tattered body, then a cold chill followed, running across my skin, leaving it ragged. Was it the merciless wind? It was expected at this time of year. On the winter solstice. The day I picked to expose myself. My heart. I repeated the question.

"If I ever disappeared from this world, what would you do?"

“Lucio.”

He loved his nickname. He'd had it for years, and yet he was still thrilled whenever he heard it slip off someone's forked tongue.

"Lucio” - perfect. That “s” sound in the middle, too. It suited him far more than his real name did.

He hated his real name. It was so... obvious, so unoriginal. Plus, it was the same as his father's, and he hated his father, too. Always barging in at unexpected moments, scolding him for being who he was and not living up to his name. Well, that’s what he claimed. “Not living up to my name.” What, as if he WANTED to be some sort of twisted, wicked maniac who -

Gah. It was pointless.

Through the whispers of romantic winds
they seem to magically appear.
On soft and tender wings
anticipation fills the air.

Count these last days our exploding stars.
Stop my cruel ways starting all of our wars.
Eat freely of the fruit of the tree...
Make time disappear till there's just you and me.

In the mountainous reaches of the Peruvian Andes, there lived a hermit by the name of Juan Halcon. Senor Juan Halcon was a strange man, one of those people who tip-toe on the edge of sane and insane. He was a broken man, he didn’t know what to and not believe anymore, scorned by the ones closest to him. He moved to Peru in an effort to escape his very mind, but only by leaving what he adored most.

Senor Halcon dealt with a constant paranoia that he was about to perish. He often freaked over the most minute of medical problems. This was one of those days. Senor Halcon had assumed his final resting place, and wrote of his life; his adventures; his dreams; his story.

If someone bullied cried for help,
What would you do?
Turn a cold shoulder,
Or help them.

If someone abused cried for help,
What would you do?
Watch them fall, unconscious,
Or go defend them.

One out of every two marriages in the United States end in
divorce. In an at-fault divorce, a spouse who is found
guilty of infidelity will be barred from seeking or
receiving spousal support or alimony.

TEXT: NEW CASTLE, PA, 2003

DEN

A close shot of a framed photograph of a bride and groom.
Both are smiling and holding one another.

The camera slowly pans over the wall to reveal more framed
photos; the couple on a beach; at a New Year's Eve party, at
a family barbecue - the man is grilling; another wedding
photo, the couple feeding each other cake; the couple
sitting on a couch, the woman hiding her face while the man
tries to pry her hands away, playfully. The last photo
frame that we see is empty.

The camera pans down to a man sleeping on a couch, his body
turned away from the camera. As the man stirs in his sleep,
the title of the film fades in:

A PREEMPTIVE STRIKE