He stopped mid metap..
His world collapsed like a punctured lung, the pen fell from his rugged hand and struck the beige carpet below with a shushed explosion. He stared at the ink strewn page and felt vomit surging from the cell of his soul. In the gap between letters he had exposed the epiphany that had pushed aside his art. The room shrunk, the world in the window vanished, replaced with bland holes of scattered colour.
He was not a great writer.
The words hurt, like a cancer, long and with few external symptoms yet internal wounds that ate at his brain and questioned his future. It's truth hurt but was undeniable.
His vocabulary stunted like a dwarf reaching for the top of the beanstalk, his poetic prose as lustful as the walls of a Butcher's Shop. His characters listless, with motives of cardboard, a blunt reminder of his life and dreams devoid of creativity and verve.
His heart ceased. With this terrible news ricocheting around his skull he could hold them back no more and the Monsters from the bleak ink spewed forth into reality freed from a prison of stories and chains of punctuation.
Now they were permitted to explore the world of the banal. twist it's mundane plots unhindered by the restraints of one who accepted his failings and gave up
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