The Curious Case of the Writer Without A Story

The two detectives entered the building. They had been warned about what they would find inside. But even so…

“In the name of all the saints, sinners, and Police Academy sequels. What the shit happened here?” exclaimed Detective Inspector Arnold. DI McAllister nodded his agreement “I don’t think I ever want to know.”

They were looking at a scene of absolute chaos. Book pages were plastered over every available surface. Someone had then scrawled over them with notes, some of which were fairly innocuous such “character development” while others were slightly more indecipherable such as “the red lady cannot fly at night for then the kittens would not play”.

“The mind is an intriguing thing,” muttered DI Arnold.

They moved through the wreckage, passed a TV set that had been battered to pieces, underneath and around precarious towers of tables, chairs, and sofas, searching for the occupant, also known as: “the source of the smell”.

“Why did it take the neighbours so long to call this in?” asked Arnold.

“They said he was always a bit off.” They opened an upstairs room. Arnold gagged.

“You can say that again. It’s so tidy in here. The paper in front of him hasn’t even got a mark on it.”

“He’s still got a pen in his hand. You don’t suppose all of this was because he had writers block or something?”

“Are you suggesting this daft bastard went so loopy to do all that shit downstairs and starve himself to death just because he couldn’t think of anything to write?”

There was one sheet of paper screwed up and thrown in the bin. McAllister opened it and then handed it to Arnold who read it allowed: “writer’s block’s a bitch.”

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