What killed the writer's block

“…C’mon, have another beer.”
“No, man, now I’m elegantly wasted, one more beer and I’ll cross the line between the sophisticate inebriation and that embarrassing moment in which you wet yourself”
“Hey, Justin, weren’t you talking about this couple getting dirty in the tube?”
“OK, now I’m listening”
“What? D’you saw a couple making out in the tube?”
“Oh, yeah, that was some nice snuggling. You see, I was on my way to work, riding the Central Line, when this couple of chavs got into the train in Holborn Station”
“Two chavs? Two boys?”
“No, I mean… a chav and his ‘chavette’”
“That’s lame, dude”
“I’ll pretend you farted instead of speaking, it’s a way to explain what came out of your mouth”
“Keep talking, what the hell happened with those chavs?”
“The thing is, they were a little bit drunk. They weren’t screaming, or making a scene, but they were drunk enough to forget about the people surrounding them, and they smelled a bit of booze. In the beginning they were just whispering to each other’s ear, and being a bit touchy, but then they kissed, and things started to heat up”
“Man a hate when kids make out in public”
“You old fart, what’s wrong with that?”
“Oh, come on, don’t play the ‘modern guy’ role. Do you like to have a girl working on some stupid kid’s boner in front of you?”
“When you were young you get laid in your backyard, during the Bonfire Night! If I’m playing the ‘modern guy’ role, you are pretending to be a prude”
“Don’t mind those two, Justin, just go with your story”
“I was reading some paper I found in an empty seat, so I had other thing to put my eyes on, but you know, when people make out they start to make those wet noises while they kiss”
“Yeah, that ‘smack’ thing every time they open their mouths”
“Precisely. It gets on my nerves! I was trying to read, but after a while I realised I had being reading the same word for ten minutes”
“What was the word?”
“Who cares what…?”
“Pasteurized. A great word, but after ten minutes it becomes the kind of word you use to hide your swearing in front of the kids”
“Uh?”
“Like when you’re dying to say “shit”, but you control yourself and end up saying ‘sugar’”
“So, they were kissing, anything else?”
“I spent like another ten minutes hearing them kissing, so I ended up sneaking a peek”
“I wouldn’t have wait. I would’ve stared since the very beginning”
“That’s disrespectful, man”
“They were making out IN PUBLIC, for God’s sake! If they can’t control themselves, neither can I. Some of those couples make out in public because they like to be stared”
“Well, the thing is, I finally looked at them. They were kissing like crazy!”
“What were you expecting? You had been hearing them French-kissing all the time”
“Yes, but what they were doing could no longer be under the term of ‘French-kissing’. Their lips weren’t touching anymore, only their tongues. Their tongues were completely out of their mouths, swirling and twirling, and the smacking sounds were only produced every time they had to take some air and swallow some saliva”
“I remember doing that in the movie theatre. I used to sit in the back row with some girl, and when the lights were out, it was as if anything was allowed”
“You could touch their tits?”
“Sometimes even their crotch”
“Man, the girls I dated were way more up-tight. I could only kiss them in the beginning, during the commercials, but the main purpose of going to the movie theatre was… well, watch the freaking movie”
“Did they do something more, apart from licking each other‘s throats, Justin?”
“Oh, you bet. By that time, there was only a few people in the train. I work the night shift, I take the 11 pm tube, and by the time you reach Leytonstone there’s even less people. That kind of encouraged them. There was this old lady in the seat next to them, but the started touching one another pretty boldly”
“The lady got quite a show”
“Yeah, the show of her life”
“Oh, but it was too much. They didn’t even started gradually, like touching their waists, or chest. The girl’s hand went directly to the boy’s crotch, and vice versa. She didn’t move her hand, but I’m pretty sure the heat of that hand was making wonders to the chav’s hard-on”
“And what about him?”
“Oh, it was even worse. He started to caress her, like really moving his fingers along her crotch, touching her through her trousers. They weren’t even proper trousers, she was wearing one of those leotard-like things girls are so much into these days”
“Oh, I love those things. Now they only wear that, like that really thin cloth over their legs and ass, and only a regular t-shirt”
“Yeah, they used to wear long shirts over those maillots, but now they don’t care”
“OK, so by the time they were mutually masturbating, we had reached Newbury Park. The train stopped, and the chav just left!”
“… What?!”
“Like that! They were practically screwing their brains out, but he jumped out of the train”
“What about the girl?”
“She just stayed there, horny as hell”
“And what about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at your smile! I’m sure you were sporting a nice boner after all that free semi-porn”
“That was the end of my story, gentlemen. For the little naughty pieces, well, you can get me another pint”
“See that bastard’s smile! Well, anyway, even with a giant tent, you could only wait to find a bathroom”
“Solo style. That girl had nothing to do with you”
“… He’s still smiling. The motherfucker, stop being all Joker and tell us what happened”
“Oh, come on, nothing happened. She was only sixteen, tops”
“Yeah, well, it will be hard to keep thinking about her age after seeing her massaging her boyfriend’s balls in a public place”
“Yeah, some people would try to do something”
“Stop smiling, Justin, it’s getting on my nerves”
“Leave him alone, he’s only human”
“What the hell are you implying?! You didn’t do anything stupid, did you, Justin?”
“Well, she had been sending… certain messages”
“What?! You’re sick, man. Justin, come on, say something. You didn’t…”
“You know what, Justin? I’m gonna get you a pint”
“This is insane… Why are you all assuming that he… And what’s with the approving looks?”
“Hey, bring me another scotch. After all, we can’t let Justin alone with his pint”
“Say something, Justin, for God’s sake!! I don’t wanna see you smiling anymore, STOP SMILING!”

El sabor de la estupidez

Desarrollando la idea que me dio Rocío:

El Sabor de la Estupidez
by flordesombra

De repente, todo enmudeció y una terrible oscuridad asoló el paisaje....cuando pudo fijar la mirada, se quedó petrificado... La gente a su alrededor permanecía igual de silenciosa. Algunos se llevaban la mano a la boca, otros parpadeaban, apartando las lágrimas; había sido la mejor película de la historia.

Abandonó su asiento, caminando hacia la salida como en un sueño. El olor a palomitas le dio náuseas y tuvo que correr para alcanzar el baño a tiempo. Echó todo sobre la loza húmeda; su descontento, su envidia, su rabia y la honda pena que le estaba royendo el espíritu.

Kent B. Wald estaba acabado. Lo sentía. Podía olerlo, detrás de la peste del vómito. Ese cabrón de Thornfield Kukavica le había dado la puñalada de su vida. Si la película había sido un éxito era porque él la había sangrado. Había destilado esa maravilla de sus propios fluídos, caldeándolos con amor y recogiendo cada gota con paciencia durante cindo años. Había dedicado tanto a ese guión...

Tanto, que había perdido la noción de la realidad. Su equipo le había dejado después de pasarse dos años viendo cómo él creaba a paso de tortuga mientras ellos se quedaban de brazos cruzados. Los productores le habían retirado cualquier apoyo económico. Al principio eso no había sido un problema para Kent, tan inmerso estaba en su criatura. Pero a los cinco años, con el guión terminado y deseando hacer de su idea algo corpóreo, se había visto solo. Tenía un taco de 500 hojas en las manos, y no podía hacer nada con ellas.

Había llamado a todos, pero nadie había querido saber nada. Todo el mundo creía que, tras pasarse media década pegado a la máquina de escribir, se había vuelto loco. Nadie esperaba nada de su guión. Pero los rumores de que Kent B. Wald había vuelto al mundo resonaron por todo el país.

Y Kukavica había llamado a su puerta, con dos zorritas enganchadas de sus brazos famélicos y agujereados, y había empezado con el peloteo. "Yo sé que eres un genio" le había dicho "Pero, ¿lo sabe alguien más? No lo creo..."

Yonki de las pelotas.

Y Kent se había mirado las manos, había tragado saliva y había pensado un montón de insultos que escupir a su cara amarillenta. Pero luego sus ojos se había clavado en el montón de quinientas hojas de papel fino que contenían su esencia destilada. Y había pensado que era una crueldad dejar que algo muriera antes de ver mundo. O de que el mundo lo viera.

Fue el apretón de manos más desagradable de toda su vida, incluyendo los juramentos con saliva de cuando era niño. Las dos mujeres se habían mirado y habían sonreído con sus bocas gélidas.

"Ya verás", había dicho Kukavica "esto será tu resurgir. Todo el mundo querrá ver una colaboración Wald&Kukavica. Volverás a brillar". Cómo se había asegurado de decir su nombre en primer lugar, sonriendo con esos dientes grises.

Y la película había salido, y él se había aterrorizado al darse cuenta de que nadie le había llamado, ni le había invitado al estreno. Acudió a regañadientes, con el estómago hecho un nudo, a ver lo que Thornfield había hecho con su criatura.

Una puñetera obra maestra, eso era. Pero, en lo que respectaba a él, no le habían concedido ni una mención en los créditos. Se había agachado, le habían dado por culo y no le habían dejado ni el dinero para el taxi en la mesilla de noche.

Kent B. Wald miró al techo. La luz mortecina le cegó. Tiró de la cadena y caminó hasta el lavabo, todo tembloroso y con una mancha violácea en la retina. Se lavó la cara y escupió, intentando sacarse el sabor de su propia estupidez de la boca. Sospechaba que no iba a conseguirlo nunca.

FIN

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