Come, Have A Cup of Tea At Writer’s Block

Come, Have A Cup of Tea At Writer’s Block

In a demure little corner of Fiction Cafe, the faint murmur and occasional gasps of a sidelined character are interrupting the otherwise deafening silence of the place. As the clickety-clack of the typewriter slowly speeds up like a sharp interlude in a symphony, Ms Bite-Her-Nails is politely asked to leave the quaint joint. With a happy sigh, she lifts up her freshly revived manuscript and obligingly walks out the door, disappearing straightaway into her one-bedroom apartment.

Around the centre, Mr One-Time-Bestseller sits slightly slumped, staring blankly towards Hotel Non-Fiction right across the street. The view is quite blurry, as all the smoke from tobacco and cannabis and aromatic candles and soulful soups engulf Fiction Cafe in an untimely mist. His pen has run dry quite a while back, and the pile of unkempt papers lay blank in front of him, but he strongly believes the situation will be different by the end of the night. He knows that that imbecile – Deadline, is keeping an eye on him discreetly from behind a pillar. 

A peddler, with his cart full of magic pills and elixirs, gleefully walks past Fiction Cafe, located at the very start of Writer’s Block. Though named a Block, it is, in essence, a street, lined on both sides by cafeterias and diners. 

The peddler now rings a bell and advertises one fascinating hallucination after another. A few youngsters rush out from the Fantasy Inn and huddle together towards the happiness peddler, followed by Mr Sardonic-Genius in a crinkled coat and no shoes.

Mrs Nobel-Laureate, in heels and pearls, emerges from the alley behind them, which is known to be the mystical secret rendezvous of her counterparts. She pays little attention to the peddler or the crowd around him and disappears confidently at the end of the street. 

At the dimly lit Hotel Non-Fiction, Sir In-His-Eighties sips the darkest espresso, all decked up in his polished boots, fancy suit and wrinkles of wisdom. The sweaty, overworked bunch of Literature-Graduates cannot help stealing a glance at him every now and then. They are usually regulars here, drowning their night shifts at media houses in the subtle tunes of jazz and gin. 


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The Firebrand-Poetess sits bemused, and alone, amidst the infamously whimsical Poetry Tavern. A cigarette carelessly dangles from the end of her lips, as she helps herself to the ninth glass of vintage wine. Her pen tingles, her phone jingles, as she freely mingles with words frolicking around mindlessly. 

As usual, Fan-Fiction Deli stands overcrowded at the farthest end of the Block – noisy, but perhaps the most lively among all. Tonight, Redditers with blurred faces have targetted the Teenager-Always-on-Facebook and reading aloud the ‘unforgivable’ flaws in his latest piece. Eager but tired souls from AO3, Tumblr and Wattpad look on, secretly rooting for the delusional teenage boy. 

Managed by two competitive siblings, Thriller Diner and Horror House stand next to each other, offering almost identical items on the menu. Regular visitors of one are also known to drop in at the other once in a while. Tonight, both the places have had to shut down early. The owners have heard about the terrifying events panning out in Real-Life Avenue at 2020th Street. 

Hiding in plain sight, Writer’s Block is frequented by almost all men and women of the pen – beginner or maestro alike. The unsaid norm, here, is to never allow the Publishers in. So, they hover outside the lane in their shadowy garbs, often letting out their characteristic howls and if lucky, secretly sending in their trusted spy, Deadline. 

Till you confront them, Writer’s Block is the place for you to enjoy a cup of tea or a sip of gin over some Netflix and daydreaming. 

Featured Image: Cafe Terrace at Night, Van Gogh

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