Writers Penance

The worst of the worst has happened. The moment has arrived with validity that is undeniable yet unfathomable, death. I am perplexed at best and the worst has yet to be processed.
I was driving my usual route to work, it was a sunny morning and my mind was on the twins’ upcoming 5th birthday party and my wife’s obsession with it being the kindergarten social event of the year. I was furiously calculating the cost of ponies and clowns when over the horizon came a blur of yellow followed by a searing moment of fear, and now I am dead. Dead, dead, dead. No pomp and ceremony, no tunnels of light, no loving arms of relatives, not even the spark of an angel or the pluck of a harp. All I have managed to experience is a large candle in a black abyss, a hand attached to a pen, and an infinite tower of paper. My deep panic is bordering on hysterical comedy, possibly exquisite tragedy.
Is this a farce of my own mind or a penance slapped upon a delinquent writer? Either is a cruel fate as the perception has yet to change. The paper and pen wait.


I do believe the story must be told.