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The writer without a story (18+)


His room was like a place out of the time, a place to work without any disruption. Mr. Writer was sitting with the laptop: stroking his “Big-Ben”, shaking it up and down…but nothing helped so far. Inspiration was gone. 

He looked at the words on the screen:

“The darkness stole her own form. She was still. Naked. Waiting in her sanctuary for the arrival of the demon. She reached for the phone. The sunlight caught her breasts, greyish, almost pale. Ghostly pale…”

After 3 hours of staring at the screen and 1 hour of ‘the breast-drawings’, all in a different shapes and structures, Mr Writer made a decision to get down to the kitchen, for a coffee.

The kitchen was big and not empty. A human life in his house? Mr Writer have noticed a girl and the woman. He took 2 steps up. Almost out of the breath. Looked at his convulsing ashy hands in a sunlight. And got down again.

He took a cup of coffee and asked the woman:

“Who is the girl?”
“Your daughter.”

Mr. Writer prepared to run, but the woman looked quite fit so he decided to play along and said to the girl:

“Hey, daughter. How’s your name?”

He hugged a hot coffee-cup, closer to the heart, and ran upstairs – to the bedroom.


The woman from the kitchen was here. Under the sheets. Squeezing his poor “Ben-jamin” with a help of her sweaty lips. 1 hour, 2 hours. 2 and a half. She stopped.

“Why?” – Mr Writer was surprised by the weak sound of his own voice.
“Where’s the ring????” – the anger was obvious.
“The ring? Do I have one?”

The woman, or wife, grabbed his head and shoved it with the malicious passion between her huge breasts. It was hot. Like in the spa. “Where’s the ring?” – she asked again, moving his head in the circles. It was too late to run.


He was free!!! On the way to the bathroom. Running like crazy – one breath at a time.
The voice of his daughter made him jump:
“Looking for the ring..?”
“You are too little to know such things!”
“I’m 23!”
“Stop joking, Anonymous!
The girl gave him the glasses and leaned against the wall. Waiting.
Yes. She told him the truth.
He didn’t want to go back, he didn’t want to meet his wife. No, no, no! Not now. Not face to face. 

“How’s your mom’s name?” –  he couldn’t come up with anything else.
Fear,” – the girl slammed the door…


Mr. Writer was sitting with the laptop, holding his blue swollen “Ben”. The head was hurting pretty bad after the last night. He typed:

“Pale. Pale. Pale. Fear with a huge pale breasts have surrounded him. He wanted to kill her…”

Too aggressive. And he deleted the text. 


The kitchen was not empty. Again. The unknown man cooked pancakes. He was huge, with a colourful tattoo on the chest. Mr. Writer left his glasses in the room. He still wasn’t prepared to face the truth about his wife.

“Do I have a son?” – he whispered, standing near the door, stretching his legs, just in the case… if he have to run.
“Thats mom’s boyfriend,” – daughters voice arrived like a sword.
“My name is Mr Best-Seller,” – the torso turned to Mr Writer and hugged him with the left hand, while using the right one to cast 5 of pancakes to his daughter. Or not his??

The torso of Mr. Best-Seller was too sticky. Mr. Writer have tried to run again, but the right hand was still holding him. Tightly.
“I-Am-F@king-Your-Brains-Out,” – Mr Writer slowly read the words of the tattoo.
Mr Best-Seller laughed and touched his ‘tool’. Or prick. Or “name it as you wish”.
“The largest. In humans and other mammals,” – said Ms. Fear proudly. 

The right moment is finally here. Up-up-up-upstairs. To hide.


Someone knocked on the door.
Mr. Writer stuck the head out of the closet and whispered:
The voice behind the door laughed.
“It’s me, Mr Best-Seller. We haven’t seen you in a while. Are you ok?”

The memories rushed in… Mr Writer shouted in ‘a falsetto’:
“Too busy! I can’t talk right now! I’m working!”

Mr. Best-Seller broke in. He wasn’t alone.
Mr Heart-Attack, would you, please, be so kind and tie Mr Writer to the chair?”



Mr Writer opened the eyes. His wife was standing right in front of him. Naked. And pale.
“Where’s the ring?” – she asked again.
He knew it was the end. She’s going to kill his ‘Blue Ben’. And then kill him. No way he could run away from them. Not now. Procrastination is the bitch.

What about the story? It was unfinished, murdered, slaughtered, gone. 
Mr Writer started to cry. He remembered now where he’ve left the ring. At the church. After a tet-a-tet-confession with a new Mr. Priest. 


They found him between the drawings. Like a cocoon. 578 drawings. All of them – the breasts of his darling-wife. The local newspaper announced:

“Today we lost the hero of our community. The master of the word and the greatest painter of XXI century, Mr Writer.We’ll always remember him. We’ll always be proud and thankful for everything he’ve done for the local church and the charity. Rest in Peace, our dear friend.”


Mr. Plumber watched Mr Priest climbing the tree near the house of Ms. Fear. With a whip between the teeth. Yes, of course, that wasn’t his business. Not today. “I’ll call her tomorrow, to ask if she need to repair the water-pipes,” – said to his own selfie Mr.Plumber. He posted it on Insta and hash-tagged:



Mr Writer wanted to kill. But the dead can’t kill. Or run. Or write. Or sit and drink coffee.
The dead can only soar above the house. In the silence.
And that was exactly what he was doing, with a half-erected “Ben-jamin”:

“I am not done with my story…I am not done with my story, Fear!”


#psycho-logical-tale Inspired by  Dronstad Blog

Book Review “You are a Badass” Jen Sincero – 6 February.
Up for a laugh? Follow Luke Copyright on his new page, new post tonight  – 
HERE is the Room


raynotbradbury View All

Living in Sweden. Awesome. Happy. Ayurvedic food. Healthy lifestyle. Dogs. Literature. Painting. Meditation/Yoga. I love my life.
"It does not matter how long you are spending on the earth, how much money you have gathered or how much attention you have received. It is the amount of positive vibration you have radiated in life that matters" A. Ray

66 thoughts on “The writer without a story (18+) Leave a comment

  1. Vast. Associative. Enthralling. So deep. Deadly. How do you kill me so easily with words? Intense. Below the confusion I sense a deep buoyancy of joy effervescent, being held in place by, something, me, desires, divergent focii. Again, this yes, seems nomenclature, sex, indeterminate son. How do we decide? Loss, and beauty. Beauty and trust. Faith and lust, not so much lust, though, it causes a blushing rouge. This sex denies it’s wisdom to thee. He laughs something free. Something free. We write our stories don’t we? Us artists … Make do.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. What an actual F@ck Commander?! Wait… Did I inspired this? Wow. Love it. A mind-twisting text. I am proud of your work. It does need some grammar check, but not much. Very artistic and abstract. 😀

    Liked by 2 people

  3. This was some super creative stuff Ray…names of the characters…the scenes with all the visual effects…the blend of adult humor…this was some artistic writing style…
    The hash tags were so funny, specially the third one…haha…
    Way to go Ray…

    Liked by 2 people

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