The Little CubeA short story

Once upon a time, there was a lovely little cube, described by many as a block. This cube, or block if you will, had a very interesting job; he was the messenger boy for the Writer's Guild. This, ironically, made him both the most popular and most hated person around.

For most of the writers, who adored him the most when he was far away, delivering messages, despised him fiercely whenever he was near. Their hot-tempered distractions by that hatred were more than enough to throw them off writing for a while. Quite a lot of them, in fact, tended to spend more time on trying to keep that poor little cube outside of their door than working for their bread. Doors were barricaded, windows barred and rum carefully sipped in the darkness.

But the council, despite many requests, couldn't fire him. When he did his work well, the cube was loved by all, both writers and readers alike. Only when he seemingly stood in their way was he even considered to be a nuisance. And it just wasn't fair, for it was not his fault that he could obscure the sun or window with his rectangular shape. Both the polygonal and mathematical shapes banded together to make fun of him, to shoo him away, hoping to rid of him forever.

If only the writers would realize that what he did was not block them, but give them a moment's contemplation. A chance to look at what they'd done and get a new, fresh breath to move onwards. And the most successful writers were not those that were never visited by our dear boy Cube, but those that knew how to welcome him, invite him in for tea and see him back out again with renewed vigor.

Such is the sad and short story of Writer's Block, who is still forever employed in the guild.

Something that obviously fails to plague me...