Manehatten Misshap

Note from author: I like to write, but i have a few quirks that I must apologize for. First, I am no master of grammar, and i have no editor. Second, I often jump from past to present tense, and back. I hope you can forgive me for my poor writing and short chapters, but thank you for even reading this!

The sun was shining, the birds singing. It was as beautiful as a day could get. And I hated every second of it.

I sat at my desk, slumped over a clean piece of paper. For weeks now, nothing has come, nothing has inspired me as things once did. I am a wreck I thought as I reached for another can of cider. Just as I popped the cap.

“Duke?” A voice called. “You down there still?”

I turn my head ever so slightly towards the door and up the stairs. “Yes Fruitcake, I'm still here.”

As she comes down the stairs she sees the mess on my desk and the half empty twelve pack of cider on the floor. “For Celestia's sake Duke, you need to get out and see the light.”

“Why?” I ask. “What good what that do?” I almost spit.

She looks almost taken aback. “You sit here day in and day out trying for inspiration, well why don't you go and find some, huh?” she says, irritably.

I slump back over in my chair. “And you don't think I've tried. Three months, Fruitcake. Three entire MONTHS!” I shout. “That's how long it's been since I wrote anything.” My voice drops to a whisper. “Three months since I’ve played anything...”

Fruitcake looks at me with sadness in her eyes. “Maybe Duke,”  She says softly. “Maybe you should just take a walk.”

I see it in her eyes that there was no way shes gonna let me sit here another day. “Fine.” I say with defeat in my voice. “But it wont do any good.” I whisper, so she can't hear.

As you may have gathered thus, I am an artist, a musician to be specific. My calling is the saxophone, I love it with all my heart. And no, Fruitcake isn't my mother, nor my fillyfriend, she's my sister.

Three months ago was the last time I performed. I played a piece of my own creation at the Full House, a bar here in Seaddle. It was the first show I did in months, a booing success, and I thought it was the start of new inspiration. But sadly, no. Since then, nothing. Nothing at all. So I sat, in our apartment, doing nothing but sitting there and drinking cider almost beating my head against the wall to come up with something, but anything I came up with stunk like dog manure.

So here I am now, walking down a small path in the park outside of our building. As I said, it was doing no good to help my writers block. Walking past the same trees, the same benches, the same stones.

“IT'S JUST ALL THE SAME!” I shout. “The SAME, same, same.... HA!”

I had it. I knew what to do.