A Cure for Writer's Block™

My body felt so heavy. So... so... heavy. My head flopped on to my shoulder, my legs crumpled in on themselves. I couldn't move. Anxiety was overflowing within me, desperately I pushed and pulled and contracted my muscles. But it was no use. No use at all.

A strange sense of calm began to replace the anxiety, an odd, warm, spreading feeling. Like being submerged in warm water for a long, long time. A weightlessness had entirely replaced everything I had ever felt. A weighted lightness. Such a suffocating feeling.

I stood, I walked. No one noticed. It was odd....

She looked over at me. I couldn't avoid catching her eye, even though I had made a point of talking about the birds and squirrels all afternoon. Babbling, trying not to leave a gap. Trying to kill time. But it was futile. I had figured it would be. Oh well, I tried. She slid over toward me, on the bench. The breeze blew. The sun was shining.

As our lips met, I wondered whether she could tell. Surely she could. I'm a terrible liar, or so my friends have always told me. But doesn't everyone get told that? What about...

I always knew this day would come. My mother told me about it, and my siblings talked about it a lot. And they had disappeared, one by one, just as we all knew would happen. I don't think it made it any easier when the day finally did come. In fact, I'm sure it didn't. I'm sure it would have been better if I had never known about this, about this terrible destiny we all shared. The terror just built up. And the worst part was the waiting. Endless waiting. None of us ever knew when it would finally happen....

The man stared at the flower bed. Scarlet petals bursting forth from the centre; it truly was a sight to behold. Gently he knelt, examined the soil, and with the grace of an albatross in flight, he plucked a petal from the rose. His chest swelled with pride. He had done it. He would finally save his wife.

But a vague thought stroked the back of his mind... this was his chance. The human dream. He could achieve it.

Pale as a ghost in the summertime, a woman sat in the garden. She admired the roses. It would be her...

"You're supposed to be melting", he whined. He pawed in his pocked for more water, tossed a palmful at her face.

She shook it off, spat it back at him. "Melt? From a bit of water... you're an idiot."

"It's been told for centuries," he wailed. "Water for a witch a puddle makes."

"I've literally never heard that. And I've read a lot of lore. What kind of priest are you?"

It's a long story, he whispered as he looked towards the altar. He pushed off with both legs, tucked, flipped back over the fulcrum of her arms on his...