Boobie Tassels For Buddha

He had two sheets in front of him. Two identical sheets of white printer paper. Standard Letter size paper. The only difference was that one was full of words, and the next was blank. He knew everyone had been here before, he had stayed with other friends as they struggled with it too. But these moments, where words just wouldn't come, these were new to him. He knew they would come. Just like he knew they would come for the others. Did he even have anything worth writing about? He remembered them from school. They were 12 of them. Friends. Or at least at the time they were. More likely they had all been just enemies in a common arrangement and suffered each other to make their own paths a little easier to bear. 12. One of those numbers that kept popping up in his mind now. His brain making associations out of nothing, trying to jump into the next page. 12 in his grad class. 12, the number on his apartment door. 12 cigarettes left in his pack. His mind took 12, 1, 2, and added, subtracted multiplied and divided them in as many ways as he could and thought of all kinds of things that were beside the point. That's what you did with numbers right? built a system around them. Ordered things? Put them in a row and on display? He was too easily sidetracked. He was tired. He needed sleep. His dog could sleep any time of the day. His dog was Bukes. Every now and then, Bukes would scratch his ear with his hind paw. But he was sleeping now. And but for the fan and the drip and the crackling, it was quiet.

2 pages. 1 full. 1 empty.

The windows were shut and the doors locked in his studio apartment. He had received an advance from the publisher based on a short story he had written 3 years ago. Since then, he had been busy. Not productive, not clever, not innovative, not original or stimulating, not at all interesting and completely out of ideas. He had kept up with the others. Some he would read about, and others he would hear about through the grapevine. He was, seemingly, doing better than most of them. Maybe he just bought a better suit and used better toothpaste than they did. Maybe he told a better story when the wine allowed him to. Maybe his turn was next. He just needed an idea. Three of them, from his days as a student, had published books of short stories, and one had his novel published. But that would be all. He needed one good idea. He felt as though he might never find it. He had little past experience to base it on. He never traveled. He never fell in love. His parents were healthy and even his grandparents were still vigorous. No one he cared for had ever died, or been stricken with disease. He had never gotten into a fight, never threw a glass against a wall, never kicked something as hard as he could just to see how it felt. He needed one good idea.

He reached for his water. Took a drink. It was cold still, but moving south towards tepid. IT helped his throat. His heart rate had dropped. He was taking his time figuring out what came next. 2 pages. There was a window across the table from where he sat. The curtain was drawn, white, and there were spots on it where it hung against the sill. He'd have to clean them. On the table before him, his ashtray, his glass of water, one #2 pencil with an eraser on the opposite end, DixTico, open cigarette pack, the empty bottle of scotch, capless and 2 pages. 1 full. 1 empty. It was a large table. Too big for his kitchen, really, but there it was. The items didn't take up that much space and were spread about each taking up enough of the surface area so as not to disturb any of the other items. It seemed to him that the knife took up the most space. It was to his right. He had set it down carefully. The blood on it was thick. Thicker than he thought it could be. And it was dark. So dark. He let his eyes wander about the room. On his kitchen floor lay one of the short story writers.

2 pages. 1 full. 1 empty. All he needed was a good idea. they were eleven now. But that would change soon too.