A Somewhat Difficult Situation
Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, hero of the people, has once again found himself in a somewhat difficult situation. He sits helplessly on the slatted wooden chair, his hands clenched into painful fists, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, and his face full of desperation. His wide-eyed gaze is fixed unwaveringly on the scene in front of him; his fingers tighten still further around the object he holds. He mutters a curse under his breath. Why now, of all times? Fate could hardly have chosen a worse moment for this to happen to him. All he wanted was to get this tedious task over and done with, so he could finally put the aggravating issue to rest- but Fate, it seems, has other ideas.
". . . Damn."
It is ridiculous really. In the past, he has vanquished far more powerful foes. He has trained, he has travelled the country, he has bested a wide variety of opponents both near and far, he prides himself on his ability and achievements- and yet now he finds himself made useless and paralysed by this tiny obstacle.
A sense of great frustration sweeps over him. What is the matter with him? The solution is simple, he knows- hovering right in front of him- but, maddeningly, he is unable to grasp it. He knows this is idiotic, knows that there are a thousand and one possible remedies to this problem, but for some reason- now, why now? - his mind has become totally and utterly blank.
He is becoming more and more bogged down in this exasperating blankness as time passes, but there is no way he can break this off now he has started. He has to find an answer now, assuming he is able to at all any more. He is not achieving anything by just sitting here.
He closes his eyes- as though not being able to see the job in front of him will make it go away- and screws his face up, slamming his fists on the table in frustration. "That stupid Colonel!"
Trust Mustang to assign him this idiotic task. It sounded innocent enough at first. Now, however, face to face with it, it is proving to be one of his most vicious adversaries to date.
At the time, ironically enough, he didn't think he would need much preparation for it. He had searched the town, treating the law with his usual display of indifference, and hadn't bothered to make notes on his discoveries or look too deeply into the way the society worked. He had basically assumed that he would be able to complete Mustang's extra assignment from memory, and possibly come up with a few creative details if necessary, to make up the weight.
It is the latter task that is causing him this trouble.
He groans, and his head drops onto the table- and the stubbornly blank sheet of paper- in front of him. This report will not write itself. The harder he thinks, however, the further away the ideas seem to be.
"Stupid writer's block," he mumbles.
Author's notes: We've all been there. I've been having a lot of trouble with writer's block recently, which always makes me grumpy, so I wrote this to express my frustration. I also happen to think it's a tale we can all relate to. :P Badly written, I know- but I didn't write it to be lucid.