Writer Unblocked

By Rachel H Grant

The little boy fingered the photograph. The handsome man smiled eagerly at the camera, a person who time had erased.

Slowly, he crumpled it. There was a void in his heart that he did not understand. A memory of …

**

The future. Malcolm surveyed the group of assorted individuals, vying for an acceptable degree of eccentricity, and smiled with his fierce charm. He had found the writing group by accident, seeking for a new hobby and noticing their advert in the local library, on a flying 22nd century adverts screen. Creative writing, well that could be a nice little money-spinner.

He began to speak, savouring each corny word that he had written. It had been so easy to churn out the saccharin sentiment. Strangely, he had enjoyed it.

Chris woke up, saliva dried on his chin. His heart beat to the drums of disquiet. So much that he had done wrong in his life. A tear trickled down his parched skin, lacing his sagging cheekbones with the kiss of karma. This was it. He deserved every rag of remorse that now filled his head.

Tonight, the dream had been of childhood. That village idiot boy he had bullied. Regret roared in his heart. The pain of his actions painted new wrinkles on his face.

What would tomorrow’s dream be? What new horrors to relive?

His own misdemeanours weren’t the worst of it. Reliving the betrayal of others, the infidelity, the lies … the pathetic pretence of so called friends.

But while he dreamt, every day there were new wrinkles, and every minute he could feel it  … his approaching end.

So it was … time to forgive.

Malcolm paused in his rendition. A slow smirk crossed his face. He enjoyed an audience, and this one was stunned. They didn’t like him, he knew that much, but maybe, just maybe, they were starting to respect him. He relished the silence, filled with unspoken applause.

As he caught Chris’ eye – the boring librarian type he had based his central character on, after all he had to dislike his fictional Chris to bombard him with such suffering – he began to read once more. The words danced from his lips. Inside he roared with insane laughter. But on the outside, he carried on calmly reading.

And now, in the future, there he stood, speechless, in a major bookshop as he gazed upon his finished masterpiece.

A sparkling jacket cover, an inspiring illustration of an old man clutching his heart. He read the biography inside. And re-read it, bile rising in his throat.

A Time to Forgive, screamed at him as he looked at the front cover.

His story, his inspiration, left unfinished as he succumbed to more and more overtime, the insane search for new career heights, his writing a forgotten dream in the cupboard of regrets.

But there it was, his book.

The cover winked at him nastily.

By Chris Thomson…

He had even kept his own name as that of the central character. That was how narcissistic the man was. Malcolm grimaced. Chris Thomson, lowly librarian turned bestseller. He would get what was coming to him…

Malcolm continued to stare at the novel jacket as a slow smile formed on his face. Of course, karma was fair, but revenge so much sweeter. Yes, it would be his … revenge. But how?

It took him a long time to figure out the perfect crime. But when it came to him, overtaking many other mediocre ideas, it was so inspired he almost took up a pen to write a new novel … and one he would finish this time. But no, his idea was too good for that. It must really happen.

Kenneth was the answer. His time travel technician friend. In 2162, time travel was highly classified, and used for the purposes of government research only. However he was sure that in the future a whole tourist industry would arise to take advantage of this emerging technology. At this point in time, the authorities were still nervous of the potential power inherent in time travel science.

However Kenneth had once promised him, over a Friday night bottle of wine, a peak in to the future if he so desired. He seemed excited. It transpired that Kenneth had seen the future himself, five hundred years ahead to be exact, however he would not speak about it. Some secrets, he confided, were too volatile to share.

But Malcolm did not need to go as far as five hundred years. No, just about 21 years would be perfect.

He thought of Chris’s sickening biography. “The proud father of 6 month old Amy …”

Amy would be his prize.

**

Malcolm had the easy conceit to realise that he was a handsome man. And a well-off one too, the plus side to becoming managing director of a small but prosperous marketing firm. The downside of course, was that due to his current work commitments he no longer found time to write … but he wouldn’t think about that. A dark shadow moved across his heart as he contemplated what could have been. The success that Chris now enjoyed…

But a smile vanquished the clouds on his face as he thought once more of revenge. Oh so sweet. The saccharin sweet of his novel, the candy corniness of Chris’ writing skills (or lack of).

Time travel beckoned his steel resolve with a claw-like grip.

It should be easy.

It would happen.

**

It was over. His good looks and charm had seduced Amy instantly. And the added bonus was that he had really enjoyed his time with her.

Malcolm had taken sufficient cash with him (and thankfully no one commented on the date on his money) to secure an apartment for a month. It was four weeks of pure bliss. A better man than he would have fallen for the girl, she was so sweet. (Saccharin sweet, the clear offspring of her idiot father.) But not him. The steel resolve still held him with vice-like strength.

It was revenge he was really after, not romance.

As he took the time travel pill to return, he smirked with all his heart’s broken promises. He knew Amy would be devastated. All she would have left would be the photos of them together … the pictures he hoped Chris would eventually see. With supervised time travel now legal in two decades’ time, perhaps Chris would very quickly understand. And revenge would be his. He would have broken the heart of the man’s daughter. When he had asked Amy to marry him she had cried. Now she could cry for ever, for all he cared.

Kenneth had warned him about coming back. The risks were greater the longer you spent in the future. Generally, a maximum of 24 hours was recommended. Something to do with the way your thought forms integrated in to the time travel pill in your bloodstream. Malcolm had spent a total of 29 days in the future, but as he closed his eyes and allowed the pill to send him to sleep, he knew no fear. Telling the pill what date to send you to was a bit weird, however. He couldn’t believe it would really work, but as he mentally stated the date his eyes closed and he knew no more …

… Until he woke up to a sun-scorched day, lying in the park where he had chosen to time travel both times. Some landmarks never changed, and parks were an easy bet.

He smiled in the sunlight. He had done it.

Revenge was his.

**

It was later that the idea came to him. It was during a sleepless night when his thoughts, almost inevitably, turned to writing. It was still a dream of his, sleeping in his subconscious, occasionally rising from its slumber to scream … before the silence of sleep claimed it once more.

He had endured a few sleepless nights since his return from the future. He decided to ask Kenneth if insomnia was a side-effect of time travel.

But he had no time to think of that now, for the idea had him transfixed. He would write. That’s what he would do. He would write a novel about time travel revenge.

And Chris and Amy in the future … they would find out exactly what he had done.

His smirk was back. It lit up his face with a sludgy glow, a smile from hell.

Malcolm laughed.

**

As time ticked on, the novel progressed. He found he was writing later and later in to the night as sleep evaded him. When he did fall asleep, he was flung in to deep and vivid dreams.

Then one night he awoke from a nightmare. It had been a real incident, from many years before. When he had broken up with his first girlfriend, at school. He saw every contour of her pathetic little face in his dream, and sleeping tears rose in his eyes. He was amazed to find that his face was wet when he awoke. The pain pulsed through him, the memory of the injury he had inflicted. He shuddered.

Malcolm rose and walked to his bathroom. As he put on the light he gazed at himself in alarm. In the mirror, two wrinkles had etched themselves firmly in the otherwise youthful skin on his forehead. He shrugged. He was not getting enough sleep, that was the problem.

The next night, he dreamt of Felicity. She had been his first real love, and the excruciating agony of finding her with his best friend caused him to shriek in his sleep. He awoke shaking. As his mind calmed, the word came to him. Forgive.

That’s what he must do, he realised with cold certainty. Forgive those who had hurt him. Forgive himself, and his folly.

Another wrinkle was plastered across his face. Puzzled, he phoned Kenneth in some concern, to enquire in more depth about the side effects of time travel.

“It’s your thought forms,” explained Kenneth. “Whatever is concerning you, when you have the time travel pill in your bloodstream, can take on real substance. So if you’re worried about your weight for example, you may put on a few pounds. It’s something to do with the way the pill is synchronised to understand your thoughts. That’s how it can send you to any time period you choose.”

Malcolm swallowed hard. So what had he been thinking of? Of course…

Night and night the dreams came, and every morning there were new wrinkles. Malcolm aged about five years each day. He could hardly recognise himself anymore. He was cursed.

And still he wanted to forgive. It seemed so important now, so important as … he heard his inner clock ticking. This was it. He was living his novel. The cause of his revenge … it had become his life.

His new novel was finished. Accepted very quickly by a publisher – time travel was all the rage in the current market, now its reality was dawning – he knew, with chilling certainty, that he would not live to see it in print.

Malcolm had not gone to work in weeks. He could not let them see him like this.

He sat at home with his thoughts every day. Forgiveness obsessed him. For everyone who had ever hurt him … but most of all for him. He must forgive himself for the countless slights, the rarer rages, the selfish actions, always motivated for him, him, only him … He would forgive.

He had not dreamt of Amy yet. He knew when he did the pain would surely kill him.

So he sat at home and watched the months slip by as mere seconds, a river of time taking him nearer and nearer to …. the end of the novel.

And Chris lay down to sleep at last, with an expression of pure bliss on his face. He had forgiven everyone, there was no emotion left to explore. It was time. Forgiveness would free him, as the peace of death would erase every wrinkle from his face. And in death he would become complete…

**

The little boy showed the photo to his mother. “I found this,” he murmured. “It’s Daddy, isn’t it? Was he a bad man?”

Amy looked at him with a woman’s wisdom. “He was only a man, dear. Deluded, a fool … but I forgive him. I forgive him for everything. For I have you.”

As she hugged him, the photograph fell to the floor. A smile flowered on her face, as forgiveness lit up her heart.

**

Time to forgive, muttered Malcolm as he sank in to a deep sleep. Amy was walking towards him, and in his dream he found himself running, desperate to see her, to speak to her, to explain …

His sleeping brain slowly understood the truth. He had really loved Amy. Blinded by revenge, he had actually wanted to remain with her. Really, deep down.

In his dream she mouthed, “I forgive,” and held out her hands.

He no longer wanted to wake up. The dream was too sweet.

And as he died the dream became real. There was no turning back now…

Time to forgive.