Insane, Imaginary Comedy

LoneReaper

A/N: This is a repost on FP, carried over from my deviantART account. I don't know what happened to the other one that was posted under this name. Just thought I should add it to my repertoire on FP. This won first place under the fiction category in the county writing fest. Oh, and I don't own Poe nor do I own his works.


Level of Nothingness

"Edgar Allan Poe. You may know him as the author of 'The Raven'—" my teacher stated, carrying her literature book in her arms; her short, stick-like figure pacing around the classroom from the corner of my eye. She advanced to the board, preparing to give a writing assignment.
"And, 'The Masque of the Red Death,' 'The Black Cat,' 'The Pit and the Pendulum'…" I muttered under my breath.
My mind was blank, temporarily defunct to do any thing, let alone a simple writing assignment. It got to the point where I could only see everyone's mouths moving, but nothing was heard. At that instant, the door to reality slammed shut in my face, locking the door, and the key falling into a perpetual hole. I fell into an endless abyss.
I completely stopped landing on my back on a rough, rocky surface with a loud, echoing 'THUD.' Ash smudges were left on my clothes and skin, the smell of burning paper overwhelming my sense of smell. After propping myself up, I became aware of all the cacophonous rackets around me in the dark, musty place. My ears bled from the inside, the eardrums overpowered by the noise. Paper rustled from every direction as a constant rush of cold air blew. Fire crackled in a distance; its dim glow flickering against the wall of stone. Metal chains were clanging as they dragged along the floor, attached to familiar-looking people.
"It's about time you showed up," a tall, gaunt man said before me. His silhouette approached as I slowly crawled back, churning the ashes under me, its dust tickling my nose. His shadow grew longer as he stepped into the faint light.
A face appeared and I recognized who it was. "Edgar Allan Poe?" My eyes widened.
"In the flesh. Well, not really. Now get up. We've got to get you through this before your teacher notices you're daydreaming." I opened my mouth before he continued. "You are here, in your imagination, to overcome your—eh, what do you say—writer's block. Here. We are in the level of nothingness. All the ideas you have ditched come here. See." Poe pointed to a broken light bulb floating to the pile. "Do you see that concrete block over there?" I nodded, gazing at the massive block. "That's Satan."
"What!" I yelled out. "That slab is nothing more than a hunk of concrete with a badly drawn face in permanent marker." The face changed into a picture of me. "What the—"
"You are your own critic. You judge what happens to your ideas…and your characters. Watch." Poe took a light bulb, labeled 'Lose Hope.' He rolled the bulb over to the block crushing it into smithereens.
"Ah, so that's why they call it writer's block."
"Yes. Here, everything is condemned. The most painful to watch is probably your characters being crushed. The screams. The blood splattered every where..." He pointed to the walls, where all my rejected characters were.
Among them, I saw Schmee, the first and simplest character of my imagination. The chains on his bony arms and legs yanked him, dragging him towards Satan. Schmee's tiny figure stood under the large shadow, as his dirtied face slowly looked up, terrified. The block plunged over him, the sound of his fragile bones cracking and the blood spraying out everywhere as if it were a lawn sprinkler; there was no place, the blood didn't touch.
I grimaced, sighing inwardly taking a whiff of the ashen atmosphere. I felt light-headed before I fell over.