Writer’s Block (a demon in my head)

In the pantheon of demons, there exist many varieties. Some are large and some are small. Some scaly, others slimy, and some clever demons even impersonate angels of light! Some demons attack your mind, while others attack the body. Some are vile and wicked, others… are also vile and wicked, but occasionally grudgingly so. This is the story of one such demon.

Bifron the Dreaded, drinker of the tears of men, was currently part of a rare breed of demons — the disgruntled. As he stood waiting for the elevator up, he kicked a fiery rock on the underground as a physical manifestation of his dissatisfaction. Despite his best reasoning or justification, Bifron still couldn’t believe they would do this to him — and after all the loyalty he had shown them!

This thought, as evil as any of his yet slightly more whiny than most, was briefly cut off by the chime of the elevator. With his hands in his coat pockets, Bifron stepped through the door and hit the top button — “GROUND LEVEL.”

“Bifron… that you?!” the nicely-dressed demon next to him asked. Bifron looked over at him, trying to remember where he recognized this demon from. Cued by Bifron’s blank look, the demon exclaimed “Germany, early 15th century? We tempted that great scholarly guy? C’mon, surely you remember that!”

After a moment, the memories rushed back to Bifron. “Mephistopheles! Why, I haven’t seen you in ages!” This was the moment in which, had the two old friends not been horrid demons, they would have given each other a large embrace. This behavior, though, would be far too loving a behavior for vile demons such as themselves.

“Boy, those were some good times!”

“Yeah,” Bifron agreed, “though I seem to recall you got all the credit for that one.”

“Haha, well that’s how the legends tell it.” Mephistopheles replied, “but I sure do remember a certain promotion coming out of it. How have the centuries of tempting world leaders been treating you, anyways?”

“About that…” Bifron trailed off, hoping Mephistopheles would pick up on the cues that this wasn’t a subject he wished to talk about. He looked up at the ceiling, and saw the “3rd Circle” light lit up; they’d be at the surface soon. After a moment, he could tell that Mephistopheles wasn’t picking up on any cues. “I was transferred to another department… demoted, really.”

“What?” Mephistopheles exclaimed, “redeemit, why’d they go about doing that?! I mean, I don’t want to be blasphemous or anything… well, I do, but not to our side. You know what I’m saying. I’d just expect more loyalty from the big guy, that’s all.”

“I don’t know… I guess I kind of… I’d rather not talk about it.”

After a few more moments of awkward silence, the elevator reached the top. The demons said their parting words and Mephistopheles went off to seduce upright men with ideas of power. Bifron, on the other hand, headed off to begin his first day on the new job.

From now on, Bifron was a writers block demon.

It was not a glamorous job. He was afraid that he would never again hold the respect of his fellow demons. But he had always believed in a job well done, no matter what that job was, and this would be no different.

Bifron checked his surroundings. He was in a small, one-bedroom apartment in the big city. Two late notices from the landlord sat on the kitchen counter. The kitchen sink was filled with dishes, most crusted with the dry remnants of pasta sauce or sandwich crumbs. Flies had begun to make their home in the overflown garbage can. At the desk, a young man sat, frantically typing away at his laptop.

The demon made his way over to the man, close enough to read over his shoulder. He moved neither silently nor cautiously — one advantage to living in the spirit world was the ability to not be noticed by anyone, save those with that pesky “discernment” gift. Just the thought of it made Bifron sick, so he put that thought out of his head. Once it was sufficiently gone and the vomit was back down his throat, Bifron looked over at the computer screen. The man had his word processor opened. At the top of the document, he read the title “The Long Road Ahead, a novel by Pete Peterson.”

“Ok, here goes,” Bifron said to himself. After taking a deep breath, he plunged his head into Peterson’s, so he could get a better view on what he was working with. Inside Peterson’s psyche, he saw a nebula of words floating around. Slowly, a few words would make their way out of the general mass and meet up in a smaller group. Once these words had assembled together, they zoomed out towards the exit.

Simple enough. Bifron stuck his hand into Peterson’s head and commenced the chaos. He grabbed hold of an adverb — “serendipitously” — and with all his might he hurdled it to the far side of Peterson’s mind.

“Well,” he said to himself, “that wasn’t so tough.” Bifron went for another. This time he chose a noun, “vanguard.” Within a few throws, Bifron began to really get into this new job. It almost became a game for him. He grabbed words as quickly as possible and threw them this way and that, causing complete disorder in the mind of the poor young writer. Soon, the words became too jumbled for any progress to be made that night. It may have not been the highest profile job out there, but Bifron had enjoyed himself.

After an amount of time relatively short when compared to the damage he had done, Bifron wiped the dust from his hands and exited poor Peterson’s presence. He felt deliciously bad about what he had done, as he should. It was a bad thing to do, and he was an evil demon. Within a few moments, a messenger for him had arrived with his next assignment.

Excitedly, he opened the envelope. It contained directions to an apartment a mere few blocks away, where a college student, Jen Benson, was writing a term paper. Sources said it was due the next day, and worth half her grade.

Bifron smiled. This would be fun.

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Longer (a real conversation)

Me: Hello?

Woman: Hi, I’m looking for the family of Jesus Gomez.

Me: … they don’t have this phone number anymore. You should probably get that changed in your database.

Woman: Oh, I’m sorry, how long have they not had this number?

Me: … a while.

Woman: A couple of weeks?

Me: Longer.

Woman: Months?

Me: Longer.

Woman: A ye —

Me: Longer.

Woman: Longer than a year?

Me: … yeah. Yeah, longer than that.

silence

Woman: … sorry.

click.

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To Be Read Emphatically (a hodgepodge)

I also considered titling this one “This is What I Think About Poetry,” because it would be very accurate. Basically, I’m not a huge fan of poetry. Which is honestly probably because I’m not very good at it. I also should stop writing these introductions to every post. So, here it is:

—————————————————

To Be Read Emphatically (a hodgepodge)
By Thomas White

I walk down the mellowed roadways;
Graven shoes rest upon my feet,
and bashful hedgehogs at my side.
Sunshine mixes with the rain;
Drops of sorrow fall on my fingertips,
and crimson doves on the brim of my hat.

I lie down on the milky hilltop.
Playing a blue guitar,
Silence rips through the confines of winter.
Diseased cattle run smoothly,
always yearning,
learning,
earning,
burning,
but never sneezing.
Drunk dandelions dance upon the dinner table

Alliterations are always awesome,
Like a dragon fighting a robot,
on top of a volcano.
Bold kittens always know which way to go,
and loose fireflies light up no one.
The merry paperclips jump with delight.

I sit alone on the empty stool.
No one even knows,
But this I do know.