Writer’s Block

The morning started with spilled coffee.

Not the poetic kind of spill either - no symbolic slow-motion shattering, no artistic steam rising in golden light. Just coffee. All over the floor. Right where Elora’s socked foot had to step, because the universe was nothing if not consistent.

She didn’t curse. She hadn’t cursed in years, not since her youngest started echoing everything she said in preschool, including “son of a b- “ followed by a very drawn-out “beach,” which fooled exactly no one.

Instead, Elora looked down at the puddle, blinked at it like it might apologize, then shuffled back toward the kitchen with the half-empty mug. There was a crack in it now - hairline, running along the inside rim like a scar she hadn’t noticed before.

Figures.

Outside, the sky was the color of wet cement. Not rainy, just… undecided. The kind of sky that matched the mood of a Tuesday when your only plans included laundry, emails you wouldn’t answer, and reheating soup from a can.

She sat down at the kitchen table, ignoring the blinking light on the landline. No one called except telemarketers and her mother, and she didn’t have the energy for either.

Instead, she opened her notebook. Not the nice one she kept for her “real writing,” but the ratty one - spattered with ink and grocery lists, used envelopes tucked between pages. It was safe. It didn’t judge.

She uncapped a pen. Let it hover.

And then… nothing.

Not even a bad idea. Just that familiar, dull fog where a thought might have been, had it been brave enough to form.

Elora wasn’t sure when it had started - this numbness. Somewhere between job layoffs and remote school and the last Christmas where no one could travel. Or maybe it had always been there, hidden beneath the busyness, like a crack in a cup she only now noticed because she wasn’t rushing.

She pressed the pen to paper anyway. It made a dot. That was something.

The knock at the door startled her.

No one knocked.

Not neighbors - they barely waved. Not delivery people - they didn’t wait. And certainly not anyone who knew her. Her friends, what few she still had, texted. Always texted.

Another knock. Louder this time. Three beats. Not urgent, but definite.

She stood, suddenly aware of the coffee stain soaking into her sock.

At the door stood a boy. Maybe nine. Brown hair sticking up in all directions, cheeks pink like he’d been running. He had no jacket. Just a t-shirt with a dinosaur holding a ukulele and a pair of sneakers too big for his feet.

He looked up at her with the kind of eyes that asked questions without making a sound.

”Hi,” Elora said, confused. “Can I help you?”

He looked past her, into the house, as if he’d been there before.

”Are you the lady who writes the sad things?” He asked.

Elora blinked. “What?”

He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “I was told you write sad things that help people feel better.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

”I don’t think I’m that lady,” she said. “I mean, I write. Sort of. But I wouldn’t call it that.”

The boy tilted his head, considering. “You look like her.”

Before she could answer, he stepped back, pulled something from his pocket, and held it out. It was a small notebook, taped at the corners, covered in doodles and smudged fingerprints.

”This is mine,” he said. “I don’t know how to finish it. Can you help me?”

Elora took the notebook, stunned. It was warm from his hand.

Inside, on the first page, in jagged letter: THE BOY WHO DIDN’T EXIST BUT WANTED TO.

She looked up, but he was already walking away. Not running, just…leaving. Like this had been a delivery and nothing more.

She stood on the porch, the notebook heavy in her hands.

Back inside, the pen still sat on her table, alone.

Elora walked over slowly, sat down, and opened the boy’s notebook.

Then, for the first time in a very long while, she began to write.

Ⓒ June 2025. Beki Lantos. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author.