Writer's Block: A Short Story

By J.L. Shojosh

A paraplegic war veteran, Warner, often buried in his own sweat, urine and feces, is given a new lease on life. Warner had thought the idea of renting out his body to a tourist from another dimension as ridiculous as him being able to walk again. Yet walk he did. Is this just another “be careful what you wish for” cautionary tale?

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.L. Shojosh
• Release date: Oct 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005535919

J.L. Shojosh

I hope to show the universal humanity inherent in all of us. There's more that we as humans have in common with one another than the differences that sometimes pit us against each other. Through stories, I hope to highlight a few of those commonalities. Love conquers all.

Book preview

Prologue

I swear Chrissie… I would sooner have your parents killed if it meant me catching a break!

Warner lamented, evidently, overwhelmed by the fictitious character on the TV.

Why would he seek out the crossroads demon then? It’s a bloody waste, a bloody, bloody waste, if you ask me.

Who asks you anything?

Chrissie viciously snapped back, but only in thought.

Christen had gotten used to his random bursts of nastiness by now, she had learned not to gratify him with a response when he’d got this way. It was just another day in the life. She would sit at the side of the bed and wonder, as she’d gleaned through her past in an attempt to pinpoint the cause of her misery; trapped in the painful, pitiful semblance of a life lived.

That she was left holding the bag, the dead weight that life had forced ever so ruthlessly around her neck, was not bad enough; she had to grapple with spending a possible lifetime with a man who struggled with even the simplest of concepts. My parents? She would fumigate in agitated silence.

Warner was Christen’s high school sweetheart, a good football player, who had convinced even her that he would amount to something.

How the fuck is getting my parents killed a sacrifice to you, you brainless oaf? Argh, now he’s actually got me stooping so low as to give his thought any importance.

Her parents didn’t believe in divorce, and besides, what would everyone think?

That she’d left him the moment that he’d gotten paralyzed? What took her so long to rid her of him? Stiff upper-lip old girl... And just like that, her scrawny fingers fiddled away, as though having a mind of their own, and her hands squished and rubbed and hammered away at her husband’s steadily atrophying body. By now, she could reach the furthest crevices of the flabby landscape of a body, without even needing to look at what was now a near-craft. As usual, she had flawlessly left no joint unturned.

Imagine Chrissie…bah! I know… he would go on to mutter under his breath, too much TV’s got my mind mushy…starting to believe in all the fantasy crap… he sighed.

As impossible as it was, flatly laid there like rolled up dough on the kitchen table, he’d felt himself sink further into his bed, walled in.

I wish… Argh! Further frustration would soon beset him, although, this time around, he’d made sure Christen was kept out of the loop… When did life get so sad? Warner had deftly drifted into thought, head tilted, he stared mundanely at the corner of the room.

So this is what rock-bottom feels like…

No, no… it’s not. He’d gone on to correct himself, upon having remembered the half dozen number of near-death experiences by his own hands, of which he’d oft narrowly escaped.

2

Warner’s eyes sprung to life with bulging intensity. He had the sweats. Just then, the sudden bright flash from the spark of lightning had blinded him, his head nearest to the window, tilted in its direction. He shuddered. Why would the rumbling thunder catch him unawares? A few squints later, his eyes were back to their sprightly mood. His breathing hadn’t yet let up, as he still panted shakily. My Gosh…Fuck! Was that…?- No way! It was just a dream, Warn. He’d gone on to comfort himself, trying to seize his heart so as to impede its escape from his chest.

I haven’t had an attack since before the accident. Warner rolled his head in the opposite direction, looking over to Christen, who was out like a log, a dry one at that; withered, fatigued and frazzled. He didn’t have the heart to wake her. The little dear works her but off.

What would he say? That he was having an anxiety attack, and that his PTSD had made a triumphant comeback in these shitty times? Hell no. He was sure that she didn’t even know where