The Village of Great Writing

Part 2

The cyber village of Great Writing was now getting more familiar to Chris. When first settling into the picturesque little township, he had for a short while ambled aimlessly through the forums, asking questions he would find the answer to less than five minutes later. 

It was Friday morning. "What can I write? How do you do this? This isn't good crack, this is just frustration!" He sat, drumming his fingers on his desk. The cursor in the top left corner of his blank page of Microsoft Word blinked relentlessly, cruelly reminding him he had yet to tap a single key. How did the others do it? Some in the community had posted over 100 different pieces of work! He could only put it down to suffering from ‘maker upper's block', as he knew not how a real writer would describe it.

He decided a spot of fresh air would do him good, and perhaps kick start his brain. He set off for a stroll around the Village. He passed the florist's, where jean.day was busy setting out her various arrangements. She had been busy recently, what with Valentines Day, and was now laying out her flowers and bouquets thereof. A myriad of colour pleasantly greeted all who passed. Jean.day was readying for the expected rush once Pick Of The Week had been posted on the Village Green notice board by the local council.

Having had no breakfast, Chris felt a little peckish, and strolled toward the local KFC for a bite to eat. Directly outside sat a gleaming virtual Rolls Royce, by far the nicest vehicle he had seen since his arrival in Great Writing. He entered the restaurant, to witness a dreadful commotion. Young Tanya, the village cyber-slapper was in heated verbal combat with an elderly, though well dressed couple. He spotted young brook_rivers sat in one corner of the restaurant, scribbling down notes, as she watched, seemingly enthralled by the display of miscommunication and anger. "Not for me" he thought; "There's no crack in here". Exiting to avoid being dragged into the melee, he closed the door behind him.

The weather was very nice. "Not too hot, nice crisp air, perfect." Chris smiled as he casually sauntered down the cobbled lane. He spotted the local vicar, Father Gerrard of Connolly, as he tended the compact but attractive herb garden that bordered the front of his tiny church. "Morning Father" Chris offered. "Top o' t' mornin' to yous too dear boy" the receding Father replied, adjusting his side-arm as he knelt. "Oi'm just weeding me wee garden, so oi am, to be sure, dat it is. Marijuana needs a lotto' lotto'  luv an' attention, if you want' it to grow" the Holy horticulturist cum drug dealer advised. "Oh, ok" Chris replied. "I'd love to stop and chat, but I am looking for some crack, there's got to be some somewhere. "Oi see, tis' crack yous is looking for is it? Oi know a man, if yous knows what I mean, but it'll cosht yer, so it will, to be sure" replied the unruly reverand, winking as he spoke in hushed tones.

Having made his excuses, Chris quickly headed in the opposite direction; loathe to get entangled in such seedy company. He was determined he would find some good crack somewhere.

Alas, after wandering for what seemed like hours, there was little or no crack anywhere. He trudged back to his office, to have one last pop at it.

All of a sudden it hit him; he had been meaning to fix the loose curtain rail above his office window for weeks. Today, having fallen from its mounting, it landed on his head as he reclined in his chair. Incredibly, it brought with it a flash of inspiration. "Why not just write a real-life story! Something that is true; something that has happened to me" he thought; his eyes lighting up with the prospect of having a bit of crack. "Yes! A sort of semi-biogradable story", he'd heard of them! With his inspiration in place, he sat upright, reached for his computer, and started to type. Now he was happy.

"I think I'll call it 'The Village of Great Writing', just for the crack."