Written by Dice

N.B This short piece was written on behalf of the author’s recurring writer’s block. 

“A tale, a tale write, a tale to write?” cried the Swedish lady. Why is she Swedish? Who knows? They felt it to be right.

Should she not speak in Swedish? På svenska hon ska tala. An English-speaking community this is, to write ‘In Swedish she should speak,’ would achieve little but to confuse them as they attempt the pronunciation. And maybe now they would learn it and sound… uncool at school.

“A tale to write?” enquired the balding fellow, with the LIMP, pronounced L-imp. “Why a tale to write?”

“I feel that I must, since it is my hobby and my joy.”

“Then write dear lady, if you are indeed expensive.”

“I would, but for my life I fear that I have that dreaded thing that I cannot name.”

“Name it blonde woman, name it, you must not fear what’s in the name. Name it quickly as the backing music is becoming more sinister, and the room has become colder.”

A convenient breeze passes through causing the man, woman, and the scurrying shrew to shudder as the pitch from the violins increase.

“I can’t name it, to name it would be to admit it!”

The woman shrieked in horror and placed her white-gloved hand upon her reddening cheek. A strange action to take, but less strange when you considered the balding man with the big, strong, firm, and attractive belt had slapped the blue-eyed lady with his moisturised hand.

“Name it, scantily dressed woman, name it!” demanded the 6-foot-2-inched man, looking down at the woman standing but 5 foot 6 inches tall. Why the passion built in him he did not know, for he did not know this woman.

“I can’t name it, man in bath robe, belt and odd socks.”

“Name it”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Ah ha, you said yes, now stand there in your blue attire and pink slippers – with a delicate floral design on – and utter that of which you have. For until you admit to it and confront it, you shall never be free of it!”

“All right, I shall admit it, I… I…”

The middle-aged man looked at her eagerly.

“I… have The Writer’s Block.”

Lightning flashed and thunder thundered from the television standing beside them on the fourth floor of this department store in lower, upper, east Sussex.

“Oh my curly-haired acquaintance, the Writer’s Block you have,” a flashing of lightning and a thunder of thunder once again escaped from the grey television that was named ‘silver.’ “But never fear for I know of a way to combat such a block that can free you and your skinny figure which wears that padded A-cup.”

“Then I would have you share it with me tubby man with the ginger hair, after you have finished holding your robe against this warm up-draft that flaps at your clothing.”

“The wind has died, and my purple robe has returned to a still state, so I shall now deliver the promised solution.”

“Yes,” she exclaimed with unrivalled doubt, “please sir, do it quickly so that I may escape from the hideous odour of your breathing.”

“You’re a character, decide your name before the tale ends, and mine also. And then you shall have finished your tale, a tale that has fought through your writer’s block.”

The thunder flashed and the lightning thundered on the HD Ready, forty-inch plasma TV which was on special offer for one day only with a free DVD.

“I, Mary Quentine, the author of another author’s mind, thank you Richard Dotcom, the balding man of a writer’s tale. I know this is the beginning of the end of my Writer’s Block.”

They waited for the thunder to thunder and the lightning to flash, but it did not come. There was a power cut.