Short Story: Bathtime

She opened the tap, allowing the warm water to flow into the tub as her own thoughts and emotions welled to the surface. What am I doing, she asked herself, pouring a silky soap into the stream and allowing the fragrance of roses to fill the room. Idly she stirred the bath, watching the bubbles swirl like the vortex inside of her. Hesitation and caution were there, but they were being drowned out by anticipation and excitement. The soapy clouds rose around her as she slid into the water, immersing herself. She relaxed in her element, willing her mind to be still and listen to her instincts. She wanted nothing more tonight than to turn off the noise of reality and slip instead into reverie.

Keys jingled in the lock, their tinkling adding another layer to her meditations. Soft sounds of someone entering and moving throughout the house drew her anticipation to a maddening level, as she waited, increasingly less patiently, for him to join her.

All of the unease, the worry, was gone the moment she looked into his brilliant, hungry eyes. She lost herself in their gaze, a shy smile creeping across her face. “Hi,” she whispered, as he brought his lips to hers, their pillowy softness the first of many warm caresses to come. “Hi,” he whispered back, after taking what was left of her breath away. It was all that needed to be said, because after that, nothing else mattered, save for the dance of two souls on fire for each other. The rest of the universe simply melted away.

Interlude

She was sitting in a cafe, alone, waiting for something to happen. She had no idea what. Lately, her life had felt stagnant, slow. She'd hoped that the cheerful garden cafe, with its kitschy yet cozy aura, would somehow jumpstart her flagging spirit.

She'd brought along the pen and paper, like every other visit, hoping that the well of words that had run dry for so long would be nurtured back to life by the gentle blossom tea. The paper sat in front of her, like every other visit, blank, empty.

Sighing, she sank further into the wicker, using its close embrace as both a comfort and a shield. Life was better now than it had ever been, she thought. Leisure surrounded her days. She wasn't forced into holding a menial job that bored her, didn't have to answer to a time clock or bosses or demanding customers. She was free to explore on her own, free to fly, free to unleash all of her wild spirit on the world and the page.

Yet the openness, the freedom itself was oppressing. Without a guide, she was lost in a sea of trivial thoughts, with nothing to direct her. Despite the seemingly endless amount of inspiration she was surrounded with, she had never felt so uninspired. She had a new, exotic life to write about, halfway around the world from her comfort zone. She wrote infrequently about her travels. You should be working, producing your masterpiece that's been fighting to come out all of these years while you were distracted away from it, she thought. And still, the words would not come.

She looked listlessly through writer's blogs for inspiration. Nothing came. She downloaded a new desktop wallpaper for computer, emblazoned with one of her favorite Jack London quotes: "You can't wait for inspiration - you have to go after it with a club." Nothing came. She decided to try a "writer's prompt boot camp" - two weeks of prompts to write about, to "jog your flabby writer's chops." Forced inspiration wasn't likely to help, but she doggedly decided to pursue it anyway.

Day one: write a letter breaking up with writer's block. She finished it in a few hours and posted it, unsatisfied with the measly 300 word result of the fruits of her labors. Annoyed, she skipped day two.

The next day, she regretted the decision, deciding that she'd make an attempt at the next prompt. It was something about running into the ex-lover - the "One That Got Away" - on Valentine's day.

The prompt brought her to the cafe, and the tea. Nestled safe inside her perch, she closed her eyes and tried to picture the "One That Got Away." Lost in the sea of fragrant jasmine blooming from her cup, she let the memories float into her mind.

She'd been doing an awful lot of thinking about "The One That Got Away" lately, she realized, in a somewhat ironic twist of fate that jarred her peaceful recollection. Smiling, she opened her eyes and started writing.

Breaking up with Writer's Block

Dear Writer's Block,

It's finally time to just come out and say what I've been thinking for the past few months - we just aren't going to make it. It's not me, it's you. You have been forcing yourself on me for quite some time, hanging around even when I don't want you to, and invading my personal space. You're here all the time, and you're keeping me from hanging out with all my cool friends. I can't keep allowing you to run my life like this, because our relationship is getting in the way of me moving on to bigger and better things.

I know what you're thinking. I can see you reading this. You think that I'll never be able to escape your influence. That I'm too weak to do things on my own. Well, nice try, Block. I'm going to show you that I can and will do this, and I'm going to leave you behind in the dust to watch me become everything that you constantly stop me from being. You can't keep me down anymore.

I know your sinister suggestions will always be in the back of my mind. I know it's not going to be easy to get over something that I've relied on for so long. You were my go to companion and constant excuse; I relied on you holding me back just as much as you relied on keeping me contained, feeding off of my creativity. It sustained you and kept you alive, all while I could feel it slipping further and further away from me. Even now, I can feel your pull, keeping me from even penning this letter. Telling me I don’t want to, I can’t, and it isn’t worth trying anymore.

Not this time, Block. Not today. Today I’m beginning the process of breaking free and saying goodbye. Today I’m going to fly away and be me. No longer will you squash my dreams of rewriting hit Broadway musicals for fleas, of narrating camel races, of telling everyone about my life that I think is so boring but is actually quite interesting. Today starts my challenge: two weeks without you, two weeks to get over you.

When two weeks are done, we’ll see if I ever think about coming back to you again.

Llots of Llove,

The Llama