Writer's Block From Hell

    Almost sunset already. Damn. The blank sheet underneath my pen grins up at me mockingly. I haven't accomplished a single sentence in three days, and the deadline looms like a shark's fin in open water. I'm a goner.

    Suddenly I catch movement in the mirror that hangs above my desk. What did I see? Just shadows in the room playing tricks? Or was there something...

    There! It moved again, a faint shift between the filing cabinet and the corner behind me.

    "Come out!" I squeaked.

    What emerged was a twisted nightmarish form that had my face, though the eyes were huge wells of black ink. Ink smeared its paper-white skin and dripped from its quill-like fingertips. It smiled up at me - its teeth were white pencil erasers. "What are you?" I whispered.

      "My name is Block, and I am yours." It takes a step towards me, slowly approaching my chair. Fight-or-Flight takes hold of me, and when it comes near and stretches out to touch me, I shout and slap it with all of my might. So great was my slap that I overreached, tumbling out of the chair, landing on top of Block, my head swimming.

    Groaning, I open my eyes to confusion. I lay on my back, my study steeped in the dark, and my entire body hurting. Sitting on my chest and staring down at me with smug amusement is my cat, London. It occurs to me that I had fallen asleep at my go-nowhere work and was dreaming, only to be rudely awakened by falling out of my seat. Warmth flushes my cheeks, and I look London in the eye, "Don't ever tell anyone about this."

    It was a dream, right? But I have an idea, my writing-hand twitches eagerly - Block is the goner, not me.

(Word Count: 300)