The darkness grabbed onto his words and crumpled them into tight rejected wads of failure. He typed with such a frenzy to keep ahead of the monster, but it was faster than his imagination, consuming all his ideas and dreams. It then had the nerve to regurgitate its partially digested remains onto the page.
He tried to rearrange the mess into something that hinted at his intentions, but he was not a forensic investigator. The work seemed dead. And to think he thought he was a writer.
He consoled himself. “Well, it’s a start.” He saved his work and shut down.
And then there were no more words. All writing stopped and the world took a pensive breath. Soon the accusations flew. The right, left, and center blamed each other on their frivolous use of such a precious commodity. Large documents were written by scholars about the lack of words and what that meant for society. Talking heads spewed countless hours of drivel about the cataclysmic problem. Entire books were devoted to finding the solution to this disaster.
All hope was lost. Shut off the lights, it was time to just give up. There was nothing left to see hear.
She threw her pen down in disgust and went to bed, frustrated beyond belief.
The next day when she picked back up her pen the words spring out, and the world was saved. Millions lived, some of them died, but the words went onward.