It was a dark and stormy night. A night, not uncommon in the town of Fairview. But unlike most nights, Travis was having to venture out into the town, not to fight against the traffic as he tried to leave town like normal, but against the undead.
"Damn it, this is a bunch of crap," said the writer. He grabs a sheet of unused paper, crumples it, then tosses it into the waste basket. He is still in front of his laptop attempting to write his next amazing novel. Beside him sets a stack of unused white paper which he uses to "throw away" any bad ideas.
The writer rubs his temples with his finger. "Damned this cursed writer's block," he says to himself. He has been stuck on this story for over a week now. With his daily word count dwindling, he needed to make a breakthrough. However, as of yet, nothing has came to mind.
He had already tried the normal things like reading comics or going for a jog to clear his head. He had tried sitting in a crowded coffee shop, hoping to drawn inspiration from the customers around him. He has went on a quiet hike into the wilderness area just outside of town. And still nothing. His inspiration as dry as the desert outside of Las Vegas.
The writer stands and begins to pace around the room. He gestures with his hands as he talks aloud to himself.
"This isn't working. I need to get writing."
"Yes, I do. But nothing is coming to me. Nothing at all."
"Then how do you ever expect to finish your novel?"
This self asked question gives the writer pause. He scratches his chin for a moment as he considers. He decides that there is only one thing left to do. Only one thing that would give him a surge of true inspiration. It was a last resort, not without its risks but he had made up his mind.
Placing his arms at his sides, the writer closes his eyes. The air around him begins to stir, gently at first, quickly growing to a full gale. The papers fly off the desk and begin to swirl around the room. The blinds rattle against the window as the wind increases even more.
The writer crouches down, placing his hands against the soft shag carpet. He looks up staring at nothing in particular and with a jolt, leaps upwards.
The roof of the writer's small apartment explodes as he breaks free of the Earth's gravity. The sounds of his silent apartment replaced by the roar of wind rushing by his ears. The writer continues to ascend, going higher and higher. As he breaches the outer layers of the Earth's atmosphere, he looks back at the tiny blue planet he calls home.
His eyes, better than any telescope, scan the planet. Taking in all the awe-inspiring sights below him, from the vast ocean to the dense jungles. He can feel the pulse of the life below, all beating in rhythm. With the hot sunlight hitting his back, the writer smiles.
The writer blinks and slowly opens his eyes. He is standing in the middle of his office. There are no papers on the floor, no destruction to the roof. But that doesn't mean that something hasn't changed. With a smile still on his face, the writer sits back down at his desk, and begins to write.
