The Word

Last night, throughout my turbulent on-off sleep pattern of which I've become accustomed to, I was forced to endure one of those pesky little irritants we call nightmares. I was not being chased by some ghoul, nor was I trapped in a graveyard of mutant zombies, oh no it was so much more horrific than that, a concept that could crush my very existence should it ever come into fruition. I dreamt that all forms of writing: fiction, non fiction, even boring statistics book, were banned indefinitely. All books were just simply gone, as if they evaporated into the heavens. When I would attempt to sit down at my type writer, the keys were held like concrete. In a panic, I rushed to the library to find my once beloved place of solace to be nothing more than a vacant structure of what once was. I collapsed to the ground, chest breathing heavy, and attempted to collect my thoughts. When I began to conjure a new story, I experienced the most dreadful writers block I have ever known. My eyes s