#ktt writes

@waterfallwritings hey, I wrote a drabble based on your name. Its rough but I hope you like it. Thank you for writing one for me. I enjoyed the hopeless horror of it.

Waterfall Writing by K. T. Tate

   It was happening again. Writers block had stopped him in his tracks. It had grabbed hold and was quite successfully pulling him down into the mire of despair. Deadlines were looming. If he didn’t submit his next book for publishing then they would drop him and that would be the end.

   His first book had been a great success. His uncle had inspired him to be a writer at a young age. He had written everything from kid’s books to horror to movie scripts. His last book, Waterfall Writings, was unanimously agreed to be his best. He’d shared the secret with him as a boy, explaining that it was the waterfall behind his house that had inspired such greatness. But then that was before the madness set in, before they locked him up for everyone’s safety. That hadn’t worked. They’d found him hanging.

   But now, in this moment of desperation the advice returned. The idea of going out to the waterfall was attractive. Perhaps a walk would help. How long had he been locked up in his room? The stack of plates said too long. Sighing he stretched. No ideas had come, the blank page was crippling and nothing more could be done. He’d tried to write and it had resulted in trash, he’d researched, written, thrown it away for being awful, tried to get inspired, failed and finally he just could not. The blank page was simply just a reflection of the void he felt inside. He was a writer but he was empty.

   His mind was a fog as he showered and got ready. He might as well try and be clean as he went out into the night. The early hour meant nothing to him, the night a great time for the creative. Once ready he set out. The drive to his uncle’s old house was easy, the roads empty. He wasn’t sleepy, caffeine had seen to that.

   Parking on the edge of the land allowed him the long walk he’d desired. The waterfall could be heard before he could see it. The woodland was strangely silent as he approached. The roar of the falls were everything. It was a spectacular vision in the moonlight, all peaceful and bewitching. Almost sacred. No wonder his uncle had been inspired by this. He hoped it would do the same for him.

  Something caught his eye. It twinkled up in the falls. Was someone up there on the bridge? He walked one way, then the next trying to work out if it was a trick of the light but it did not change. Driven by curiosity he climbed the man made stairs over the slick ancient rocks. The bridge went under the fall, to the little space behind and out the other side. Had someone left a torch there? Perhaps they were having a secret liaison, or they were injured. No-one would have heard them. Better to be embarrassed than to leave a person injured.

   Reaching the bridge the spray didn’t bother him as he went under, the rushing water all he could hear. But this wasn’t right. Not an alcove but a cave. A single candle burned in the distance, obviously sat on something. His own torch had died and so he tentatively stepped forward. It was then he felt it, a strange rush of adrenaline flowed through him. The sound of water melting away into whispers as he walked. Words, soft and tantalising materialised as figures, ghostlike and wispy appeared in the gloom. They played around him as he continued onwards, mesmerised by the flame and the desk it sat on. Next to it an old style typewriter.

   Bring us to life, they begged. Write us. Own us. Craft us into reality. The voices pleaded as he pulled out the chair. He knew what to do. He was made for this. Ideas came thick and fast. The block he had suffered dissolved into nothing. The clicking of the keys was music to which the muses danced, encouraging him. Inspiration poured into him until he thought he would drown from inside. This was no first draft. This was it. This was perfection.