Writers Blocked

Writers Blocked


'The WHOOSH of the scythe ended with the THUD of impact.  The force of the blow buried the blade in Steve's chest, and there was a hideous SQUELCH as the killer worked the blade back and forth, trying to free it.'  Great stuff, Jack Jamison told himself with a CHORTLE.  There's no way they'll turn this one down, he thought, typing out the last few pages.  The ending's perfect for a sequel, too!

** ** **

Jack organized his mail with a quick SHUFFLE, then selected an envelope.  "NO-O-o-o!" came his anguished BELLOW, after reading the first paragraph of the rejection letter.  "Those hacks wouldn't recognize a decent manuscript, if it hit them in the face with a SMACK louder than a hardback hitting a linoleum floor!  Well, if nobody's going to publish my stuff, then..."  There was a loud noise, and then silence for the next half hour.

Quiet footsteps scuffed along the hallway.  There was a faintly metallic scratching, and then...  The door flew into the wall with a SMASH as two officers flung it open and quickly entered the one room apartment; checking it took only a moment.

"Any idea why Jamison would kill himself?" asked the older cop.  He checked the body, then told the other officer to call in the dead body.

"Nope," Sal Parsone said in a MUMBLE around his mouthful of sandwich.  "We was watchin' TV and heard a BANG.  It was a lot louder than the show, so we called you guys."


[247 words]