An (un)Expected Visitor
A man sat at his desk. It was very large and made of wood, (oak, more specifically) with many drawers and shelves filled with pens, papers, and other such items. It was extremely clean for being under the ownership of a single young man, and the only object resting upon it’s glossy surface was a blank piece of paper.
He studied the sheet, his eyes flicking back and forth from behind his glasses, as though he was searching for something he couldn’t find.
Leaning back, he licked his lips, and then tapped his pen up against them, as one does when they are deep in thought. After doing this for a moment, he leaned forward and hunched over the paper. With the pen now in between his index finger and his middle finger, he tapped it on the desk. He twirled it around, clicked the end, which retracted the tip, and then clicked it again, which brought it back out. He leaned forward and rested his chin on the paper. He stared at the sheet, and placed his pen on it, making a mark.
This mark turned into a line, which looked like an “I”. And, it was, in fact, an “I”.
He wrote out, “In the beginning…” and then stopped. His eyes twitched. The man jolted up quickly, let out a furious roar of frustration, smashed the piece of paper into a tiny ball, and angrily threw it at his overflowing wastebasket, which knocked a few more pieces of crumpled up paper onto the floor. He removed his glasses, set them on the desk, and rested his face in his hands, which he rested on the surface of the desk. A peculiar sound came about from the depths of his stomach, and he slowly sat up. He brought his arm up to view, and glanced at his wristwatch.
“I haven’t eaten for six hours,” he said glumly, snatching his glasses and placing them back upon his nose. Sighing, he pushed his chair back, and stood up. He brushed himself off out of habit, and turned to go to the kitchen. But then he stopped.
Floating in the room, about two meters from the man, a foot or two above the carpet, was a cube, suspended in the air. It was a very light shade of blue; turquoise, almost, and had what appeared to be a smooth, glossy surface. It seemed silent at first, but then the man realized it was emitting a low hum, like that of a florescent light bulb.
The man blinked, removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, put his glasses back on his nose, and looked again. The floating cube was still there. Taking a step, he observed the shape, looking for some sort of wire, or propulsion system, or any kind of identifying mark he could find. Slowly, he took another step, staying as silent and as still as he could, until he was a mere foot away from the object. He saw nothing on the cube. He reached out to touch it very slowly, inch by inch.
His hand was shaking, and sweat trickled down his forehead. Closer. Closer. Five inches…
four inches…
three…
two…
“Hello,” said a voice, which caused the man to let out a terrified yelp, stumble backwards, hit a file cabinet, knock over a planter, push a tall pile of papers off a shelf, run into his desk, and stick his foot in his wastebasket before he ended up on the ground. He scrambled around to the back of his chair, and peeked out the side at the cube. It was still.
Keeping his eyes on it the entire time, he felt around the floor and grabbed a crumpled up piece of paper. He pushed his glasses up his nose, licked his lips once again, took aim, and tossed the makeshift weapon over the chair. It sailed smoothly through the air, until it hit the cube, and then it bounced, twirled, and fell to the floor. There was a moment silence, and the man held his breath.
“Ow,” said the voice again, “You hit me.” The man emerged from his hiding place, and yet again approached the cube. He was slightly bent over, his hands out in front of him.
“Who said that?” he asked, looking at the cube, but expecting a reply from somewhere else, for some reason. He stopped. There was silence.
“I did,” said the voice again, now with an edgier tone. The voice appeared to be coming from the cube. The man straightened his posture, and furrowed his brow. He opened his moth to speak, but then closed it. There was an uncomfortable silence between the man and the cube.
“What are you?” he asked, rubbing his chin.
“That is for you to answer,” it proclaimed, “You have created me.”
“I created you?” the man replied, shocked and surprised.
“Yes. Just a few hours ago.”
The man stared at the cube. He had a quizzical look upon his face.
“I sure don’t remember creating you.”
“Think hard.”
The man thought. Hard. He sat down in his chair, his elbow on his knee, and his chin on his fist. The box remained motionless. It took him a while, but suddenly, it clicked. The man looked up.
“You are my block. A writer’s block.” he said.
The cube tilted forward, then back to it’s normal position, and then disappeared. The man’s face lit up, he swiveled around, picked up his pen and a new sheet of paper, and wrote the best story that was ever written.
He studied the sheet, his eyes flicking back and forth from behind his glasses, as though he was searching for something he couldn’t find.
Leaning back, he licked his lips, and then tapped his pen up against them, as one does when they are deep in thought. After doing this for a moment, he leaned forward and hunched over the paper. With the pen now in between his index finger and his middle finger, he tapped it on the desk. He twirled it around, clicked the end, which retracted the tip, and then clicked it again, which brought it back out. He leaned forward and rested his chin on the paper. He stared at the sheet, and placed his pen on it, making a mark.
This mark turned into a line, which looked like an “I”. And, it was, in fact, an “I”.
He wrote out, “In the beginning…” and then stopped. His eyes twitched. The man jolted up quickly, let out a furious roar of frustration, smashed the piece of paper into a tiny ball, and angrily threw it at his overflowing wastebasket, which knocked a few more pieces of crumpled up paper onto the floor. He removed his glasses, set them on the desk, and rested his face in his hands, which he rested on the surface of the desk. A peculiar sound came about from the depths of his stomach, and he slowly sat up. He brought his arm up to view, and glanced at his wristwatch.
“I haven’t eaten for six hours,” he said glumly, snatching his glasses and placing them back upon his nose. Sighing, he pushed his chair back, and stood up. He brushed himself off out of habit, and turned to go to the kitchen. But then he stopped.
Floating in the room, about two meters from the man, a foot or two above the carpet, was a cube, suspended in the air. It was a very light shade of blue; turquoise, almost, and had what appeared to be a smooth, glossy surface. It seemed silent at first, but then the man realized it was emitting a low hum, like that of a florescent light bulb.
The man blinked, removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, put his glasses back on his nose, and looked again. The floating cube was still there. Taking a step, he observed the shape, looking for some sort of wire, or propulsion system, or any kind of identifying mark he could find. Slowly, he took another step, staying as silent and as still as he could, until he was a mere foot away from the object. He saw nothing on the cube. He reached out to touch it very slowly, inch by inch.
His hand was shaking, and sweat trickled down his forehead. Closer. Closer. Five inches…
four inches…
three…
two…
“Hello,” said a voice, which caused the man to let out a terrified yelp, stumble backwards, hit a file cabinet, knock over a planter, push a tall pile of papers off a shelf, run into his desk, and stick his foot in his wastebasket before he ended up on the ground. He scrambled around to the back of his chair, and peeked out the side at the cube. It was still.
Keeping his eyes on it the entire time, he felt around the floor and grabbed a crumpled up piece of paper. He pushed his glasses up his nose, licked his lips once again, took aim, and tossed the makeshift weapon over the chair. It sailed smoothly through the air, until it hit the cube, and then it bounced, twirled, and fell to the floor. There was a moment silence, and the man held his breath.
“Ow,” said the voice again, “You hit me.” The man emerged from his hiding place, and yet again approached the cube. He was slightly bent over, his hands out in front of him.
“Who said that?” he asked, looking at the cube, but expecting a reply from somewhere else, for some reason. He stopped. There was silence.
“I did,” said the voice again, now with an edgier tone. The voice appeared to be coming from the cube. The man straightened his posture, and furrowed his brow. He opened his moth to speak, but then closed it. There was an uncomfortable silence between the man and the cube.
“What are you?” he asked, rubbing his chin.
“That is for you to answer,” it proclaimed, “You have created me.”
“I created you?” the man replied, shocked and surprised.
“Yes. Just a few hours ago.”
The man stared at the cube. He had a quizzical look upon his face.
“I sure don’t remember creating you.”
“Think hard.”
The man thought. Hard. He sat down in his chair, his elbow on his knee, and his chin on his fist. The box remained motionless. It took him a while, but suddenly, it clicked. The man looked up.
“You are my block. A writer’s block.” he said.
The cube tilted forward, then back to it’s normal position, and then disappeared. The man’s face lit up, he swiveled around, picked up his pen and a new sheet of paper, and wrote the best story that was ever written.