I turned to look at my laptop sitting quietly on the desk. I considered how quietly it sat, like a sleeping cat waiting for attention.
Slowly, I edged my way along the wall from the door, watching the desk with continued concentration. One wrong move and he’d know. I scaled over my bed, hit my wardrobe and kept creeping. Met a corner, kept creeping.
So close now.
Then a spotlight lit up my desk, as well as a slow laugh like the sound of a microwave whirring.
“Oh, it has been a while!” The voice grinned, my comfortable desk chair squeaking around to present him. He wore a crisp uniform I assumed was pressed by some author demon. He held his cap under his arm, majestic thick eyebrows rose to show his violet eyes peeking up at me still stretched across the wall.
“New hobby?” He asked, taking out a rolled cigarette from his pocket, “though I thought parkour was an outside sport.”
“I’d rather you didn’t smoke.”
He looked up from eyeing the lines of his cigarette before popping it into his mouth, “don’t worry love, the only smoke I make is disappointment.”
Hands forming fists, I walked over to him. Fear made my knees lock so rather than emanating confidence I appeared more like Forrest Gump with leg restraints.
“Move.” I forced out.
He appeared somewhat surprised, a lighter dangling lazily in his hands. “Oh my,” he said around his cigarette, “I wouldn’t be here unless you had a mind to continue.”
He stood up from my chair, forcing me to retreat a few steps. “Very well little writer – let’s see now.”
He lifted a hand above his head, twirling a hand palm up as a sword hilt dropped into it. He pointed the tip at me, his mustache twisting into a French curl. “On garde!”
I closed my eyes, twisting my head to the side as I tried to imagine my own sword. It formed out of the mist of my mental headspace, a grin spreading across my face as I felt the cold metal in my hands.
“I will win Boman Block!” I cried, brandishing my sword, “and then I shall write about this just to spite you.”
Block only laughed, cocking his head to the side as my room seemed to double in size. He flicked his sword at my feet, a shadow forming there. I looked up and jumped out of the way just as a huge red duplo block slammed into the space I was standing in. Boman Block flicked his sword upwards and I looked up, watching my room stretch outwards. More brightly coloured duplo came racing towards me. I jumped, rolled and dodged as the blocks fell and clicked together.
“Quit it!” I yelled, running to jump onto my bed, “I don’t want what happened last time!”
“You’re the one who watched Toy Story yesterday,” Boman Block replied, pacing up and down on his wall, “If you were American, you’d appreciate my wall a lot more!”
“Racist!” I yelled back as I sat in the middle of my bed. He had swapped out his cigarette for a cup of tea, holding a saucer with one hand and sipping the cup with the other.
He smirked up on his wall, watching me with an amused air.
“Okay, you’ve got this.” I muttered under my breath, putting out my hands in front of me. Squeezing my eyes shut I willed a steering wheel into my hands. I had to get to my desk chair. I had to turn my laptop on. Action films filed through my mind, war movies showing my intention rumbling into view.
I almost cried when I felt the smooth leather against my fingertips, the sudden cramped environment. I opened my eyes to a dash covered in buttons, a helmet sitting on my lap. Boman Block looked a tad worried under his English peaked cap, dropping his cup so it plummeted down towards the ground.
I pressed down on the throttle and charged my tank towards the wall. He jumped off the wall towards me, bending his legs behind him as his clothes shimmered into a kamishimo and brandishing a samurai sword.
My tank hit the duplo wall, smashing through it like a toddler’s tantrum. He landed on the hood of my tank, launching himself into the air to then spiral himself down towards me sword first. With struggling fingers’, I opened the hatch and jumped out just as he slammed his sword into the engine.
It exploded, throwing us into the opposite sides of the room. He flittered back to the computer desk, slicing his sword through the air. His hair had grown to a topknot on his head, his eyes never leaving my face.
At my appraising look he shrugged, “your Samurai Jack binge session last week.”
“You will not stop me!” I cried, “I really want to finish my piece – I have to.”
Boman Block smiled a toothy grin, standing tall. “Well then.” He pressed his samurai sword against his chest, letting it melt into chainmail around his torso. It traveled up his neck to cover his face. A crown flashed into existence as the crimson colours of King Edward Longshanks stitched itself into a tunic.
I gritted my teeth. History class really wasn’t helping my situation. But nor could I ignore the taunt. I closed my eyes to feel the wash of Scottish rage crash into me. A kilt brushed against my knees, the slight pressure of war paint running down my face. I opened my eyes to pick up the sword and shield lying at my feet.
Block smiled down at me from a war horse. He had returned my room to normalcy, the smoking mess of my tank no where to be seen.
“You can’t win this.” He smirked, “we both know how William Wallace ended.”
I adjudged the weight of the shield, tightening the straps. My determination pressed a hard smile into my face. I would win. A sudden idea flashed into my mind, burning into my willpower.
“Oh Block.” I said, “this is my writing space. I write people into existence, I write worlds.” I tested the weight of my sword, “You just helped me forget that. But I love writing, I love the surge it brings me. I love the research and the details and the characters.”
I felt rather than saw my characters pop into view, many wearing kilts, others holding their specialized weaponry. My short story Vikings were brandishing their weapons, hooting at my slight, white-haired sniper climbing up my bookcase to set up on the top. One of my elves was singing a hunting melody, while a vampire from my tween writing days was lounging by my cupboards.
I adopted a terrible Scottish accent, ready to throw my sword arm towards my enemy, “Our enemies may take our lives, but they'll never take... OUR FREEDOM!” I screamed as my characters threw themselves towards our target.
I grinned, seeing the hesitation in Block’s face as the rush of characters behind me surged forward. Horror and fear creeped onto his face, dodging a spear thrust towards him.
He looked at me with disbelief. I knew he wondered where the defeated writer had gone, why the fear and frustrated had faded.
“Get ready to be added to the collection.” I grinned.
ns 15.158.61.48da2
