Throughout my life, I never thought that I would ever have writer’s block. I always thought it was just a joke. Who would’ve thought? After having fifteen straight books as bestsellers, my mind has gone blank. I’ve stared at this same bloody screen for two years now. Some people thought I was dead. Hell, even my internet fan base has basically ended. I’m a forgotten writer, washed-up as they say. I get up from me chair, and walk over to read the morning paper. I stare at the front page of the “Liverpool News” unsurprised. Another murder, that’s been the front page story for almost every day the last couple of years. Bloody cops can’t do anything. They need to stop eating doughnuts, and get on diets to catch these sick blokes. Always a different kind of death for each victim, this time a forty-two year old woman was whacked with a golf club a couple of times. Poor woman, I thought. I put the paper down, and got ready to go into the city. I put the paper in a basket where I collected old newspapers. I left the house to go into the city. Later, that night I came home carrying groceries. I put up the groceries, and went to me computer and continued to struggle with writer’s block. After a couple of hours, I fell asleep on me computer keyboards.

  The next day, I woke up, and had breakfast. After that, I found the morning paper. Another murder story was on the front page. This time the murderer shoved a screwdriver in a chap’s head. The poor chap just walked out of a pub, and a screwdriver was shoved in his head. I’d hate to be him, I thought. Reminds me of a murder story that I once wrote, a chap walks out of a pub, and a screwdriver is shoved in his head. I also remember another story I had written in which a middle-aged woman was killed with a golf club. Could the murderer be copying me, I thought? Could it? I grabbed a couple of me books, and I pulled out old newspapers from my collection. After thirty minutes of searching, I came to the conclusion. “This bloody murderer is basically using me stories as murder ideas!” I decided to see the police about this. I drove to the police station, and walked inside. The whole station was empty. The sheriff saw me from his office. “Hey Matt, what’s up?” I walked in the office. “Sheriff Field, I think this murderer is using me stories as ideas to kill people.” Sheriff Field stared at me for a moment, and then burst out laughing. He said, “You’re joking right. Come on Matt, why would a murderer use your stories as murder ideas?” “Look, I know it sounds a bit crazy, but you have to believe me. This murderer is killing people off in ways that I’ve written in me stories.” Sheriff Field replied, “I know what you’re trying to do, Matt, trying to get attention, because you’re just a washed up writer trying to get some publicity.” “Sir, I don’t want any publicity. I’m telling you the truth.” “What happened to you Matt? You were such a great writer, now you’re trying to tell lies to get publicity.” “For the bloody last time, I don’t want publicity. I have evidence about this.” “Where?” “At my house, I can show you.” The sheriff leaned back in his chair, and thought for a moment. “Okay, lead the way Matt, but if you’re lying I will arrest you.” “Yes, Sir.” We walked out of the office. I asked, “Where is everybody?” The sheriff replied, “I’ve sent all me cops out, to try to find this bloody murderer.” We walked into the parking lot, and got in our cars. I led the way to me house. Inside the house I grabbed a handful of old newspapers, and walked to me bookshelf. The sheriff asked, “Alright, where is this evidence at?” I replied, “Here it is.” I showed him me stories, and the old newspaper articles about the murders. After the first couple of murders that I showed were based on one of me stories, the sheriff started to believe me. He said, “This is amazing, a murderer killing people in ways from stories that it’s read, very odd.” I replied, “I agree.” I left the sheriff looking over at the stories and old newspapers. I walked over to a drawer, and opened it. I pulled out a blood stained hatchet. I sneaked up behind the sheriff. He continued on, “Amazing…” He fell down with the hatchet stuck in his head. I had to do it. I needed inspiration in some way. I dragged the sheriff’s corpse outside, and put it in the police car. I yanked the hatchet out of the sheriff’s head. I got inside the car, and drove it on a deserted dirt road to a deserted lake. I parked the car, and got out of it. I grabbed a rock, and put it on the gas pedal. I turned the key, and got out the way as the car rode off a cliff and landed in the lake below. It slowly sunk in the water. I said, “Well, that takes care of that.” I walked down the dirt road back to me house. They probably won’t find the body for a while nobody comes in this area anymore. I continued the five mile walk back to me house. That night I pound the keyboards like crazy. I’m making a comeback. Like I said before I needed inspiration. All the previous murders I had committed were unoriginal. They were just regular people, I realise I have come up with the cure for writer’s block well, for us horror writers anyway. Murder somebody who’s important, like Sheriff Field. The story I’m writing now involves a sheriff getting a hatchet in his head. I feel better then ever now. I wonder how the bloody Hell I’ll feel next time when I get writer’s block, for when I do get writer’s block again, I plan to murder the prime minister.

Author's Note: