---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Web” Down in the Dirt, v204 (2/23) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Forbidden Library the Down in the Dirt Jan.-April 2023 issues collection book		get the 420 page Jan.-April 2023 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Order this writing in the book the 2024 flash fiction date book (the 2024 flash fiction and art weekly paperback book)		get the 140-page prose & art weekly planner as a 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Writer’s Block

James Marino

    No, Paul thought, it wasn’t mice in the crawl space. He’d been wrong about that.
    But what could’ve seemed more natural than mice, what with the dry leaf rustling under the floor of the cabin deep in the Vermont woods as the autumn wore down into winter?
    But now, with the first snow of the season he saw he’d been wrong about the mice.
    The footprints coming out from under the cabin and tracking away across the sloping yard toward the line of trees lost in the mist of the lightly falling snow were proof of that. Just a skosh too big for mice, he smirked. Then his face went serious.
    It’d seemed like such a good idea at the time, when his uncle had offered him the cabin during his sabbatical so he could work on his novel. Away from everybody, no distractions, no TV, no radio. And no cell phone. Just a nice clean healthy regimen to get him on track. Almost Spartan in its simplicity. Up at dawn, first to feed the wood stove, then coffee and breakfast, the morning given over to writing. Lunch followed a good morning’s work and then a brisk walk to work out the kinks. The afternoons working on the wood pile, splitting at least a day’s worth of wood before the earlier sunsets, stacking the pieces up against the house. Then back inside his tight little warm cocoon for a simple dinner, with the night given over to reading before the fireplace, and last a ritual glass of Jameson, gazing sleepily into the flames before bed.
    But that was all changed now.
    He looked out at the footprints starting to fill with snow. The snow was coming down faster now, wetter, heavier.
    His uncle wasn’t due for another week.
    Paul had no car, and when his uncle had dropped him off and they’d carried in the supplies, he’d made it a point that he’d be back at the end of the month with more staples and maybe another quart of Jameson for his favorite nephew. Just keep the fire going to keep the pipes from freezing and check the generator so it don’t run out of gas. There’s more than enough gas in the tank in the shed in back of the cabin, so just keep an eye on it.
    Paul almost wasn’t listening, he was so anxious to be alone with his writing.
    And now he was.
    He remembered the first night, sitting in front of the fireplace, liking that more than the wood stove in the corner, even though it was no way near as efficient, and sipping his first Jameson, relishing in the utter aloneness of the moment when he’d heard the first rustling under the floor.
    Well, he’d thought then, mice were nocturnal after all, weren’t they? But as long as he didn’t see them or their leavings in the kitchen, he wouldn’t go out of his way to do them any harm. As far as he was concerned, it was live and let live.
    But now everything was very different.
    The ax that should’ve been set deep into the splitting block standing by the pile of wood was missing. Which was wrong. It should be hulked solidly, deeply into that block of wood. That was the way he’d left it after yesterday’s stacking.
    The tracks were all covered now.
    The wind was coming up.
    He remembered how sharp the blade of the ax had been. That was why it sank so deeply into the splitting block, every time. His uncle had insisted he keep the blade sharp, and that was one chore he’d performed regularly.
    He thought about how polished, how shiny the edge of the blade was, how it flashed in the afternoon light coming down on the wood every time.
    And he knew the tracks would be coming back.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...