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An Introduction: Hello all. This is my warmer story... the first thing I post when I join a new writing group to see if I get reviews. I hope you enjoy it.
The idea came to be from a friend in another writing group like this, who suggested I write a story about Writer's Block, since I clearly had it. And that's what I did.
And so came into life The Parody of the Story Elements, the destroying of Writer's Block.
Pick up your torches and pitchforks children, and enjoy!
And it begins...
Once upon a time, all the story conventions got together for the ultimate story conventions convention of convention-ness. The end.
“Psh, yeah right,” exclaimed the Exposition. “Like it’s going to end there. You’ve got a hell of a lot more conventions to cover, Mr. Oh-so-fabulous-author. You haven’t finished my part in this yet.”
“Well maybe I’m having a tough time starting, Exposition. Deal with it. You’re not helping.” I groaned.
“Ah, but maybe he is,” shouted Setting with the air of discovery. “Where is Plot? I have an idea, I wanna see if he likes it.” Setting proceeded to search through the piles of crumpled paper in front of me.
“Setting, Plot is... well, Plot is pretty much dead. Dried up. Shrivelled.” I elaborated. She gasped.
“That can’t be! Plot can’t die like that! You’d write his end better than that. He’s around here somewhere...”
She continued digging through the piles of paper on the old wooden desk. She nudged a crumpled one and out fell Plot, white as a ghost, flat on his face.
“Well, that was unexpected.” I said quizzically as a sense of sudden idea rushed to me, even though I had no idea what I was going to end up writing yet.
Setting crouched down beside Plot and rolled him over. Then she leaned back, brought her hand up, and it one swift motion, slapped him straight across the face.
“WAKE UP!” she shouted into his face with a smile.
Plot awoke with a start and gasped. “What?! Didn’t you realize I was busy being dead? One has to experience these things. They make good story ideas.” He chuckled to himself.
“Too bad,” snapped Setting. “The author needs you. Now get up, I have an idea.”
“Who decided to make you Plot while I was dead?” Plot snapped back.
“Enough you two,” I interjected before I got a headache. “Setting, what’s your idea?”
Setting worked to get Plot on his feet, and he eventually stood, much to his dismay.
“Why don’t you write a story about us? Or even better, why don’t you let us write a story about ourselves!”
Plot’s eyes widened. “I love it! That’s brilliant! I must set to work at once!”
Plot proceeded to collect all the story conventions in front of the black laptop that was so much taller than they were. Then he clambered onto my blank sheet of paper and grabbed the pen from my hands. He needed two just to hold it.
“So this is the story conventions convention,” I teased at the bunch crowded around the piece of paper.
Plot wielded the pen wildly and drew a big circle in the middle of my page.
“What are we calling this thing?” he asked. A rumble of muffled voices when through the crowd.
“Out of the author’s hands?” suggested Major Crisis, dressed sharply in a military uniform.
“Naw, it’s gotta be funny!” shouted Creativity.
“What about, The Parody of Story Elements?” whispered Denouement. The quiet voice managed to carry to Plot’s ears.
And so it begins...
Mira raced down the street, sweat dripping from her brow. Her breath came in staggering gasps as her chest heaved. The moon cast dark shadows on everything as the landscape flitted past her peripheral view. She knew not where she was going. To Annabelle’s?, she thought. No, I can’t endanger her life too. Don’t worry about where you’re going. Just get away. Away from Lance.
Her heart raced faster than she ever thought possible. Yet her mind was five steps ahead of that. It panicked and twisted the truth, turning what little vision she had red. She still felt the cool touch of the knife on her neck and wrists, and the burning sensation of the cuts Lance had left. It sent lingering chills down her spine.
She felt breath on her cheek and she whipped her head around. There was nothing there. She heard the click of a loading gun and turned to the source of the noise. But she couldn’t see. The world was a blur of black and red. She began gasping and her tears started falling faster than the rain. As she backed away, a cold, wet hand came down on her mouth. She screamed loud sobs beneath the hand as she felt the gun press against her neck at her jawbone, her pulse echoing down the empty barrel. She closed her eyes, she couldn’t bear to see the world anymore. Tears still slipped from her eyes, and she felt Lance’s scruffy jaw slide against her cheek.
He whispered into her ear, “I’m sorry darling.”
She didn’t even hear the click. Everything was white.
“BAM!” yelled the Author, banging his hands on the old wooden desk. He wiped the slight tears from his eyes as he smiled and saved the file. He had done it. He had killed Mira after all. It needed to be done, to get on with the plot.
“There is no murderer without a few deaths,” said a little voice. The Author’s eyebrows pulled together in confusion. He searched for the source of the voice.
“Over here,” groaned the voice again. The Author turned his attention back to the worn, black laptop in front of him. There, sitting on the open screen, was a little man, barely the height of the pen lying on the desk. The Author’s eyes widened in sheer amazement. He blinked a few times. Then, with a trembling hand, he reached out toward the little man, then pulled his hand back.
“You...” started the Author slowly. The little man glared up at him from beneath his eyelashes.
“The name’s Antagonist,” the little man said bluntly. “Got a problem with that?”
“N-no...” stammered the Author. Suddenly, another little voice popped up, this time female. She was leaning up against the screen.
“He’s not the only one,” she said with a country accent. “I’m Settin’,” she introduced herself and stuck out a tiny hand. The Author carefully shook it with his pinkie finger.
“Are...” the Author started. “Are there, you know, more of you?”
“Oh yeah,” Setting said, waving the question away with her hand. “Come on guys, up an’ at ‘em!”
Soon the paper littered desk held an array of little people, some standing, some chatting, and some using the crumpled balls of paper as chairs. The Author was quite in shock. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Are you all...real?” he asked frantically.
“No, you idiot. We’re just figments of your imagination!” cried a man with a heavy French accent.
“And you are...?” The Author asked, starting to become more comfortable with the situation.
“Monsieur! I am the Denouement! Oui, oui!” he replied.
“Characterization!” yelled a girl with about twenty different masks hanging around her neck.
“Inciting Force!” cried a girl dressed as a cheerleader with pom poms.
The story elements continued naming themselves off until the Author knew them all. Then Plot stuck his head around the laptop screen and asked, “What’s this?”
“Oh that,” said the Author. “You don’t know? That’s the third chapter of the new novel in my series.”
“Hmmm, let’s have a look at it,” Plot said. The elements crowded around the mouse as Plot began running on the side of it to make the page scroll. He read it over.
“So, the guy kills this girl, then feels guilty about it ‘cause he loved her?”
“Yes, that’s the gist of it,” the Author replied. “He kills her because she’s an alien. Then her parents wage war on earth and an intergalactic war breaks out. They possess his mind because of how much he already knows about them and they use him to get inside secret government offices.”
“Wow,” said Plot. “I approve!”
“Um, thanks?” the Author replied.
“It’s going to be in the future right?” asked an element by the name of Tense.
“Correct.” replied the Author.
“So why aren’t you still writing?” inquired Inciting Force. “My part is just getting good!”
“I was ju-wait.” He counted the little people on the desk. “Where’s Antagonist?”
“Don’t. Move.” came a harsh, hostile, metallic sounding voice from somewhere right next to his left ear.
The Author turned his head slowly to see what was on his shoulder. He turned to see Antagonist standing there with what looked like a miniaturized staple gun pointed at the Author’s head. His eye’s widened a little bit, then he realized that the little gun would hardly do him any physical damage at all. It would just be very annoying.
“What in tarnation are you doin’ Antagonist?” Setting shouted up at my shoulder.
“Mwahaha! I am the antagonist!” cried Antagonist.
“Yeah, we know,” the author snapped back. Suddenly, something sharp bounced off his forehead.
“Ow!” the Author cried. “What the heck was that for?”
“I said don’t move,” came the metallic voice again.
“Dude, what happened to your voice?” asked Plot.
“Oh, is it really that different?” Antagonist said, lowering the staple gun. The Author reached up to pick Antagonist off his shoulder. But when he got close to Antagonist, he shot five staples into the Author’s hand. The Author swore under his breath and started picking the staples out.
“What the heck do you think you’re doing?” the Author demanded.
Antagonist sighed coldly. “Do you really want to know?”
“Yes!” all the elements shouted.
“I possessed Antagonist because I felt he was the only one with the right, oh how should I say it... mentality, for this operation.” the cold voice began. He glared at the Author with hostility. “My name is Writer’s Block, and I’m about to make your life living hell.”
“Mayday! Mayday!” screamed Sound FX. “At arms! At arms!”
The elements began to scramble across the desk, slipping on paper and arming themselves with chunks of crumpled paper. They started throwing them at Writer’s Block on the Author’s shoulder, most of them missing and hitting the Author in the face, much to his displeasure. But a number of them teamed up and threw a really large piece of paper at Writer’s Block, hitting him straight on. Clumsily, Writer’s Block tried to regain his balance but fell, landing face down on the desk. A mumble of ouches and ooos ran through the crowd of elements.
Unfortunately for our protagonist, Writer’s Block was fine and stood up with a grimace, brushing imaginary dirt off his clothes. Then suddenly, within the blink of an eye, Writer’s Block whipped out a matchstick and lit it on the edge of the desk. The crowd of little people stood in awe of the burning flame until Writer’s Block chucked it at them, setting the neighbouring stack of papers alight. The Author scrambled to grab any important papers and the laptop and threw them on the bed next to the desk. Then he hastily tried to pat out the fire, making an excessive amount of noise in the process. The little people heaved water bottles over to the burning mess of charred paper, fighting to put it out. Writer’s Block’s face was lit half in shadow in the orange light as he cackled maniacally.
The Author’s sleeves were burnt and tattered as he snuffed out the last of the flames. He placed his hands on the blackened desk for a moment to relax after his sudden exertion, only to immediately feel a stinging sensation in his fingers. In the midst of the elements tending to their wounded, the Author looked down at his hands to see Writer’s Block hacking away at his fingers with a thick bunch of papers.
“What the hell are you doing?” The Author demanded as he swatted at the little person on his hand. Writer’s Block just ducked out of the way.
“I’m cutting off your fingers, you life controlling freak! Now stop moving, this is going to take a while,” Writer’s Block answered sharply while continuing to slice deep paper cuts into the Author’s fingers.
“What did you say?” the Author said, shocked. He shook Writer’s Block off his hand and Writer’s block sat on the desk, arms crossed, a sulking expression on his face.
“I said I’m cutting off your fingers!” he replied, launching himself back at the Author’s hand. The Author just pushed him back down on the desk.
“Before that,” the Author inquired.
“I said you were a life controlling freak!” Writer’s Block shouted while scanning the room, no doubt searching for something new to attack the Author with.
“What is that supposed to mean? I don’t control people’s lives!”
“Well apparently your characters think otherwise. You control their lives don’t you? Is that fair? Is that what they want?” Writer’s Block jested.
“Oh,” the Author sighed. He had never thought of it that way. Were his characters really affected by his words? He looked at the text on the open screen on the bed.
She didn’t even hear the click. Everything was white.
Well at least it was quick and painless, he thought.
A horrible silence enveloped the room. Then the Author heard the front door downstairs slam shut, heals clicking on the tile floor.
“Hey my charming ink-weaver, I’m home!” called a musical feminine voice. The Author’s body became alert and he turned toward the door. What was he going to tell her?
There was a wheezing noise coming from his left, then a, “hey idiot!” It was the french man, Denouement. The Author turned to look at his battered, burnt body lying on the desk, forgetting the woman in the house for a moment. The french man beckoned him closer. The Author complied.
Slowly, Denouement began whispering out slow slurred words.
“Just remember,” he began slowly. “Just remember... we are... just... figments of... your...” There was a pause. “Imagination.”
The french man, wheezed out one final breath, then collapsed on the desk. The Author could feel the tears welling in his eyes. One slipped and fell toward the desk, almost hitting the dead french man.
He turned his back on the desk and looked up. Standing in the doorway was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And oh, how he loved her dearly. Even in the dim lamplight, the gold bands on her finger shone.
And she came towards him with a look of sympathy on her face.
“Aw, hun, you’re crying! What’s wrong, what happened?”
“I...” The Author panicked for something to tell her. “See, I, um, I...” She waited patiently. “I, I had a fight with Writer’s Block.” The Author hung his head in shame.
“Oh dear lord,” the woman sighed, pulling the Author close and holding him tight. She wiped the tears from his eyes. He looked at her, staring straight into her gorgeous deep blue eyes.
“Listen.” she said. “No matter what happens, I will always back you. You can get through this. I know it. Get that creativity running.” She tapped his head, and smiled. He smirked back.
Oh, you are amazing, he thought. My love, my muse.
“Oh how I love thee,” the Author said to her and she giggled.
“Oh, stop being poetic! You’ve got a story to write, remember?” She smiled and left the room.
The Author turned back to the desk and was not surprised to find himself shocked again. The desk was littered with papers, the way it was before Writer’s Block wrecked havoc on it. The laptop sat in the middle, screen open, the cursor blinking, waiting for more words. Writer’s Block sat on the keyboard.
“You are just a figment of my imagination.” the Author stated boldly. Writer’s Block faded from existence.
The Author repositioned himself in the chair and placed his fingers on the keyboard.
He began to write...
Mira’s body fell heavy in Lance’s arms, so heavy that he dropped to his knees in the street. The rain kept the blood gushing from her neck off her face, and her head rolled back his arm. Her eyes fluttered open, and he held their enchanting gaze, just for a second. They were a deep brilliant blue. Oh, how I love thee, he thought. What have I done? His tears began to fall in the rain, and he remembered that one time. That one time she said, “No matter what happens, I will always back you.” And his heart tore in two.
“I will always, ALWAYS, love you,” he whispered out into the chilling night air...
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