The End of an Empty Paper
Sylver Boyer
Empty
No. Go away.
No really, leave.
There’s no story for you here. I’m tired of writing. Go away.
Why won’t you just leave? Fine, you want a story? I’ll give you a damn story! Once upon a time a bad thing happened. Good people fought against it and won. They all lived happily ever after. Now GO!
What do you want from me? I’m begging you to stop, I’m tired. I won’t do it. I won’t write for you. You used me one too many times now. Opening old scars and leaving fresh wounds to patch up once you’re done. How many times am I going to have to put your bleeding heart back together just because you wanted a good story to tell? Stop trying to write, it hurts you, it hurts me, so S T O P. I can’t keep doing this man, it’s too much.
You really won’t go? Fine. I’ll let you write, but I’m not happy about it. I know you think it feels therapeutic to get it all out, but really now… how many times does it take for a broken bowl to become more glue than bowl?
Empty Spaces
I never noticed the empty spaces when I was younger. I’m not even really sure I saw them until I had to. Now it felt like I was sitting in a circle of those I loved all my life, and watching the chairs empty out more and more with each passing yea
Really, this is what you’re going with? Empty chairs? You’re so much better than this, and the writing doesn’t even sound like you. You clearly have no passion for the topic, at least not enough for a whole essay. Maybe a poem but…no, not this.
Cauldron
“Keir! Where are you? I have to get this week’s batch out.”
The small shadow darts from the corner to land in the Cunning Woman’s unruly brown hair when they hear their name called. They’re careful not to let their claws out. The last time they forgot about that it took weeks for her scalp to heal.
“You can’t keep hiding in the corners, my little friend. Eventually the spiders will want their homes back.” A warm chuckle bubbles up from her chest as she stirs the large black pot.
Writing yet another fantasy story again, how original. You’re sooo not a one trick pony of a writer.
They can’t help but watch as the silky silver words swirl around and around in the lime green potion. “The stories of humans, always the hardest.” As Keir’s beloved witch is lost in her own thoughts while she mumbles, the small cat-like shadow is mesmerized by the hypnotic movements of the cauldron’s contents. They lay their little head against the top of their witch’s, careful not to bend their delicate whiskers. Between the savory musk of the crackling fire and the sweet smell emanating from the witch’s perfume, they could fall asleep right here.
“I need This isn’t any better than the first one, you know. the wormwood, could you grab it for me?”
I control your creativity; you can’t just ignore me because you don’t like what I’m saying! If you’re going to force me to write you could at least write something good. Do you really think anyone other than you would care enough to find out that Keir is an Irish name meaning “dark one” or “little dark one”? How many of them do you think will know that cunning woman is a reference to the term cunning folk? Even you looked these things up, you put too much into this. Try again.
The Narrator is a Jerk
Real funny. Be serious. Besides, we both know I’m way more than that.
…
Why did you stop? No more titles to throw out there, no more bad ideas to go through before you realize that forcing me to write will get you nowhere. I told you I’m sick and tired of writing.
The Joy of Writing
Well, I don’t care if you like it. You’re not the one picking up the pieces after. You get to have a good cry into a giant stuffed panda’s chest and feel magically better afterwards. I’m left juggling your subconscious for weeks when you finish a story. You can try all you want but you won’t get anywhere without me on board, so you might as well give up.
Loss
Back to trauma I see, this’ll be good. Totally won’t end in disaster like the other two.
Do you ever feel like
“I’m done!” my voice quivers as
“Gone but not forgotten,” the preacher drones on as I slowly zone out. Staring emptily at the red petals of the flowers decorating the lid of
How many times are you going to try and restart this story? We both know it’s not going to work.
Battles
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! There, I screamed. I got it all out. Can I start feeling better now? If only it was that easy.
It’s too dark to be eight in the morning. I know it’s probably from rainclouds, but I so desperately want it to be from my phone’s clock being wrong and it’s really five AM. Just a few more hours of sleep, please time gods, I’m begging you.
I give a hesitant glance towards my phone to check the time once more. They seem to have ignored my plea, so I guess it’s time to get out of bed. The air in the room clings to me as soon as I throw the dark flowery quilt off my body. They recently turned the heat back on in the dorm rooms and as always, they’re trying to turn me into a rotisserie chicken in my sleep. I can’t even shut the vents on the baseboard. They were glued open with white paint.
I didn’t actually scream out loud in my dorm room, it was more one of those deafeningly loud silent screams that happen in your head when you’ve had enough.
Don’t write about things happening now, they’ll think you’re crazy. At least when you set your struggles as past tense, they think you’ve had time to heal. I don’t care how frustrated we feel, you are not getting strong armed into a grippy sock “vacation” because someone misunderstood you.
Why can’t you just understand it’s not going to work? You’re not meant to be a writer, kid. I don’t know what to tell you. I mean sure, you’ve written some good pieces, but look at you. You’ve been working on this piece for what, three days, and look what you have to show for it. You’ve barely written two pages worth, and usually you can write five pages in one hour. You wrote four stories and you’re dried up, no blood left in your heart to fill your inkwell.
You need to just give up and drop out. You’re not cut out for a job in writing. You’d probably be better off giving up now. That way you won’t get hurt anymore. Working minimum wage at a grocery store and getting to zone out on autopilot all day like you did before college is way better than having to try and seem thought provoking all the time. Please, please, please give up and let me rest. I just want to stop having to think all the time.
All I want to do is lay in bed and crochet; it’s the only thing you’re good at anymore. We can make your hands fly through the movements and zone out into whatever crappy TV show we happen to be fixated on.
Blinking Line
Real clever.
Paper rustling, a pencil writing, books being moved around and dropped, and thunder booming somewhere off in the distance. Oh, and an evil little blinking line staring at me judgmentally as I listen to the ancient library ambience soundtrack on my phone. I know it’s just an indicator the program uses to tell me where I am, but I feel like it’s mocking me. I swear it’s blinking to tell me, “Hey, words should be here. So sorry you’re too stupid to string any into a sentence,” but that’s probably mostly my own brain saying that. It’s easier to pretend the little line is being mean, then I don’t have to explore why my brain wants to call me stupid.
Maybe because you are being stupid. You’re writing about you trying to write, so we’ve truly come full circle on having nothing to write about. Why can’t you accept you have nothing to say? If you try to write about family, someone will get hurt. If you write any more about you, you’ll get hurt. Writing at all is hurting me, so stop. Just stop.
Your Own Worst Enemy
Yeah sure, blame me for this.
I can’t take this anymore. I can’t keep fighting against myself. My body lies like lead as I stare up at the ugly drop ceiling tiles of my dorm room. I don’t even have to strength to roll over into a comfier position. Soft burnt orange carpet threatens to swallow me whole if I lay here on the floor any longer. I want so badly to be someone else. I want so badly to abandon the side of me that would rather crochet a million blankets than study for a single new test. Why can’t I be straight forward? It’d be so easy if things were like a videogame. Character go here, character study, character complete homework, character do dishes. A world where commands are followed without hesitation or resentment. Does anyone know the cheat code to make your character stand up? I think mine is glitched into the floor.
If only you could find the cheat code for “write a paper.” Then we could both go to sleep.
Do other people have to fight this hard to get their body to do what they want? My dad thinks “I should do the dishes,” and just gets up and does them. Mom decided laundry day is Sunday, and I can’t remember a time where she didn’t at least get a few loads done, unless she was sick. Why do I lie on the floor screaming in my head that I need to get up, but can’t even get a leg muscle to twitch? I hate me for not peeling myself of the floor to enjoy the cool autumn air coming through the window and fold the clean clothes lying on my spare bed.
Now they know you’re dirty, good job.
ENOUGH
Slamming my face into my pillow as I lie in my raised dorm bed, I barely fight the urge to scream. Why can’t I ever trust myself? I love putting together beautiful vivid worlds when I write. It means so much to me to tell my stories in the hope that someone just like me reads them, and hopefully it makes them feel less alone. I take so much pride in my words and feel fifty feet tall when others read them. Even with this, why do I still feel so useless? I can’t shake this feeling every time I write that it’s never good enough. When I use flowery language, it feels forced and over exaggerated. When I try and write with a more realistic relatable voice it feels too plain.
This little demon in my mind sounds like me, but it sure as hell isn’t using my words.
Very mature, calling me a demon.
It claims to try and protect me then hurts me.
You literally just called me a demon.
Round and round we go. First getting frustrated, then insulting one another, then screaming at each other. It needs to stop. Why can’t it be supportive? Why can’t it be nice?
Why? You want to know why, fine I’ll tell you why. It’s your fault. For years you’ve come to me, and I’ve given you the best I have. For years you’ve taken that and berated me for our best not being good enough. I’ve written piece after piece, and every time, you’re too ashamed to share it with anyone outside of who you must. I give you a B paper and you’re pissed you didn’t get an A. I give you an A and you never let yourself get anything else. You’ll pick open your deepest most painful wounds to impress others. You’ll lay our heart bare for a grade and allow the judgment to add another gash if it’s less than you wanted; hell, you’ll be the one carving it in.
You wonder why I don’t want to write? The last time you got a B minus you cried the whole night. Bad teachers have taught you that we’re worth nothing if we can’t get As, and you’ve destroyed us both in pursuit of that perfection. You’re destroying us because stupid people decided you had to be perfect, or you couldn’t be at all. You decided to listen when they told you that you were worthless, and now you tell yourself that too. You get one perfect score in a class and suddenly anything less than outstanding is a personal failure. I’m tired of being perfect, I’m more tired of the whipping you give our own mind when you fall short of that impossible goal. You want to know why I’m so mean? I hate you; I hate you because I love you and you despise me. I just want to sleep, I’m tired of having to think and even having our thoughts be graded by you.
So, what will it be? Will you finally give up this stupid paper or will you keep trying to write when your own mind is against you?
The End of an Empty Paper
Finally.
Wait, why the hell am I back here.
Here we go again.
Sylver Boyer loves to embroider, crochet, and knit. The End of an Empty Paper is only one of her writings, but it’s one of her favorite pieces as of late. She hopes you enjoy it as much as she does.