Writers Block.
Definition: a condition, primarily associated with writing in which an author is unable to produce new work or experiences a creative slowdown.
The feeling started for Hilda within a fortnight of pulling the MYOPE flyer off the wall. Whatever creative impulses that once exploded and fired about her brain on a whim now had all the ignitibility of wet fireworks. Her creative dry spell only seemed to get increasingly worse as the last remains of winter had given way to spring and April showers did indeed bring their May flowers. And now with twenty days to go before the deadline, Hilda bore down at the blank sheet in front of her, almost as if engaging in a staring contest…one she found herself losing night after night.
"AAAHHHH! I DON'T KNOW, I JUST DON'T KNOW!"
Almost immediately, Hilda's declaration of creative bankruptcy was answered by the dweebling chimes from her phone, alerting her of an incoming text from Eustace looking to hang out. With nothing better to do, she accepted his invitation to loiter in the shadow of the Odeon.
"A crumbling movie theatre at 9:25pm. Can anything be more on brand for you Eustace?"
The goth boy laughed dryly as he stared at the ceiling of the forsaken film house.
"Where else can one go to get away from it all?"
"In the middle of a no-horse town like this…anywhere when you think about it."
"So how you doing with your poem?" He asked while sliding down the stairwell's ornate banister. "Have you found a way to best verbally reduce Arnie to a pile of ashes given what he's done to your heart?"
"That's just it. I can't." Hilda groaned. "All day I get these ideas teeming about my mind, but get me a paper and pen…(she blows a raspberry)…you know? And…and it's not as if I like-like him anymore, that ship has sailed-"
"-and mercifully sunk." Eustace chuckled to himself as he looked over at a poster of Lusitania
"Yet now my brain feels as impenetrable as cement to whatever muses that once visited me on the swiftest of wings. Night after night I've poured over my body of work in hopes of seeking something to reignite that creative spark…(sigh)… but to no avail. I almost feel as if the sheet of paper mocks me with its purity. Knowing no matter how hard I try, it will remain as vacant and white as… "
As if in a trance, Hilda slowly walks toward the open doorway of the Odeon. Staring skyward, she stares in awe at the full moon surveying her sleepy hamlet and all the inhabitants therein. The girl had seen the moon like this many times in her dreams, often it would herald the arrival of an idealized Arnie; a sensitive and idealistic chap who came around like he was dignified. But not this time, not now or ever. Drinking in each crater and crevice on the luminescent lump of rock in the sky, the wheels in her head start to chug and churn like a dormant machine being restarted after an epoch of inactivity.
Before long, Eustace joins Hilda beneath the marquee. He opens his mouth to talk only to be greeted with the palm of her hand clamping itself around his mouth while as she continued her visual vigil with the moon. All that remained for the moment was the natural symphony nocturnal fauna as they in their own manner revealed to the Pulaski girl the words she was to write.