Tim looked at the shards and fragments of his many broken story ideas. He poked through their remains. Each was as pretty as a stained glass window, but every time he tried to hang one on a sheet of paper they would come crashing to earth. Now they were just jagged pieces of color.
He almost just threw it all away when he had a thought. He began to nudge the pieces together and laying new prose as the glue. Soon a new, even more vibrant, picture began to emerge.
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.