Writer's Block

His heart was pounding, the walls closing in on him the more air he gulped down. Skin clammy with sweat, he gripped an instrument he had never let himself near in countless years. In front of him lay an endless expanse of innocent ivory plains, beckoning him closer. He wasn’t sure if he had finally lost his mind, but he swore he could hear those perfect sheets chanting “Weave a story scribe, let down your walls and let the words flow through you onto us. You know you want to…” The more the pages spoke, the more his bones ached, the more his veins burned, his blood flowing like acid down his uninspired vessel.
Lurking near the edges of the room sat three towering men in intimidating uniform, faces pinched with severity. The mountain in the middle rumbled after what seemed like eons. “We know what you are, wordsmith. All we ask is that you end this now and your family will go free. Just write a little story and the truth will be revealed. You cannot keep yourself from the pen for long.”
The man sat there for a long time, trying not to think about his desire. He longed for these many years to take up his inky sword, to slash and cut his ebony path into the parchment he found himself surrounded with every day. He knew that to cave would spell the end for him, and so he resisted. It was only until his child went to school and had snuck in the man’s scribbling from years before the ban that they knew.
Tears soaked his face from countless hours of crying, mingling with the briny sweat coating his pale skin. His head and heart ache rose to a deafening roar until

Breath
gasping
Heart
surging
Blood
Pounding
Lungs
Burning
He gingerly placed his sword upon the page, and began
To write.