This is not writer’s block! You can’t have writer’s block if you’re not actually a writer, Thomas finally put his ginger head in his hands and sighed as his shoulder blades gave in under the weight of his thoughts. I’m a failure, I’m just a failure, always have, always will, my mother was so right! He sank deeper and deeper into the vicious muddy waters of negative thinking that nothing can stop from unravelling.
He looked up and, through the stained blinds hanging in front of him, in fact just a piece of dirty fabric he had nailed above the corners of the window frame, he could see the beach in the distance, and even the waves curling up and down, in and out on the shiny sand. He watched the tourists for a while, and then thought he got a new idea. He held the pencil so tight his knuckles whitened, and he began writing furiously: “It was night on the beach.” He then stopped, read the sentence and chuckled, I’m such an idiot, night on the beach? All the textbooks say you gotta start with a hook!
He had been trying to write a novel for months, after one of his short stories had won an amateur writers’ contest in an online magazine. One anonymous reader had called it “a great piece of writing”, and Thomas had found that to be all he needed to call himself a writer. Against his parents’ advice, he had quit his insignificant clerk employment in an insignificant warehouse, he had rented a cabin on the beach, and every day since then, he had tried to write something new, something that would make everyone stand in awe of his greatness.
Except he couldn’t come up with anything right enough. He would start a sentence, stare at it for a second, and then the pencil would come down and blacken every single word into nothingness. He would say to himself that he just needed a little bit of inspiration, so he would go out on long walks looking for it. He would wonder around the local beaches for hours, watching the street vendors, talking to random people who seemed as lonely as he felt, listening to the music coming for sidewalk bars, and wishing he could afford to sit down somewhere and enjoy a cup of stove-top coffee. Nothing seemed to work. The more he thought about it, the more desperate he became.
Today would be no different. “It was night on the beach” became a splotch of dark lead, right before his hands grabbed the piece of paper and crumpled it until it turned into a small and wrinkled nothing. He sighed again, and decided it was time for his walk. He also decided that, during his walk, he would settle on how long he would continue trying to be a writer. He couldn’t afford being a disappointment anymore. He was perfectly capable of going back to his old boss to beg for his job back. He envisioned the man’s cruel laughter and the humiliation, and the thought made him shudder.
He came out of his cabin and headed for the beach again, as he had done every day for a while. He passed willow trees and groups of tourists basking in the sun. He could hear the waves singing over the human voices, and he could feel the sun somehow warmer than ever before. As he walked, tiny beads of sweat started forming on his scalp and soon enough, they were sliding down to his forehead and into his eyes. He wiped them away with the bottom of his shirt, and continued walking as the sun continued to shine hotter and brighter. Pretty soon, the heat made him yearn for a place in the shade, under one of the willow trees now still as stones for the lack of wind.
As he headed for the willows, he couldn’t help but notice something that seemed just a bit out of place, something colorful among the branches and elongated leaves, something that attracted him ominously and propitiously at the same time. He couldn’t quite understand how he was able to listen to a thought that warned him and a thought that enthralled him, both in the very same fraction of a second, both supported by their own separate sensations, both screaming loudly in his head and trying to convince him of the truth.
With another wipe of the forehead he chased those thoughts away and felt like he was making his own decision to keep walking towards the willows, to find out whatever amazing thing hid among them. He reached them presently, and reached his hand up to remove curly branches out of his way. The more he tried, the more it became like trying to go through quicksand, leaves falling on his face, or wrapping around his ankles, slapping him over the mouth, and trying to poke his eyes out. He eventually made it through, after what seemed like hours, which in itself was a mystery because he knew, he just knew how many willows there were in that particular spot, and he knew it couldn’t take him hours to walk through to the other side.
Unfamiliar sounds made him stop and listen carefully. As he listened, he realized he could make out the shape of a tent not far from him. The sounds definitely came from there. He followed the music and reached the tent easily, as if the willows were charmed and they knew to clear the way for him. He paused in front of the abode for a few seconds, and considered whether to even touch the sunburnt fabric. As if his hands weren’t under his command anymore, they both started moving to open a door for him. A sweet and buttery smell of sandalwood enveloped him quickly, and before he knew it, he was inside, in darkness, but not in silence, as he could now clearly hear the music of the pan flute.
Before his eyes could adjust, flickers of light began popping out of nowhere. With their help, he was able to start glancing around, while not being able to shake the feeling that something strange was about to occur. He took a few steps forward and finally started noticing the details around him. This is not just a tent, it can’t be, he thought as he could see the five foot five walls covered in a rainbow of hand-made tapestries. Ottomans reminiscent of the Turkish Empire decorated the floor, and various-size hookahs seemed to be waiting for someone to use them. How is this possible? This is not right, this is supposed to be just a tent, he started to fear that he was losing his mind.
But he kept going, a few more steps, a few more ottomans and hookahs, a couple of heavy curtains he almost had to fight, and finally he saw them. Lying down on red velvet sofas, with long, curly hair braided with golden coins, with lipstick a little bit too red for his taste and dresses to match, gypsy women were gathered around a deck of tarot cards which one of them handled effortlessly. Three of them, more beautiful than any women he had ever seen, a beauty even the flamboyance of their dress couldn’t disguise. He froze for a few seconds, and realized he was afraid to breathe. He was intruding upon a private tarot reading, and he knew that was an insult. Still, he couldn’t make his body move anymore. He watched them for what seemed like hours, mesmerized, enthralled, aroused, and most of all, completely enchanted.
After a long while, he felt beady sweat on his forehead again, and instinctively wiped it off. The sound of his hand going to his forehead seemed to hit the walls of the room and reverberate all over. It instantly attracted the attention of the women, who first looked up at him, then glanced at each other, then smiled as if they knew some kind of secret he didn’t, then made it to their feet in one swift movement and surrounded him before he could do anything at all.
“I’m… I’m so, so sorry,” he barely whispered and bowed his head. “I… I seem to have lost my way, I thought…” he stuttered and that made the women laugh.
“No, no, you’re in the right place,” the one to speak first seemed to be the oldest, although you could never tell the age of a gypsy woman.
“Yes, let us take care of you,” the second one chimed in while taking his hand and caressing it as a lover would.
“Are you looking for love, darling?” the third one pulled him away from the others, and started spinning him around in a dance he couldn’t prevent.
“No, no, I just… I just… I just want to go, I didn’t mean to intrude,” he still stuttered and the women still laughed at it.
“But you’re not intruding at all,” the first one continued and her eyes squinted as she measured him up and down, trying to see inside his soul.
“We were waiting, we were just waiting, the cards told us you’d come, we already knew,” the second one smiled seductively.
“I will love you, I will love you forever if you want, darling,” said the third, “All you have to do is say so.”
He knew something was wrong. He knew he needed to get out of there. Foreboding sensations were plaguing his entire body, he could feel his heart racing as it always did when he was scared out of his mind, he could tell his hands were shaking violently no matter how much he tried to hide them under his shirt. He didn’t even dare look anywhere other than into their eyes, one at a time but in random order, as they kept whispering things he couldn’t make out. He didn’t understand how fear and sexual arousal could share his body at the same time, and he disliked both. He wanted to run away, but he didn’t move, he couldn’t move. He stood there, surrounded by colorful skirts and golden-coin braids, glancing at their lips as the three started chanting together, first with a hum-like sound, then with words he didn’t know the meaning of.
“What do you desire most?” All three sang, as if they had rehearsed it over and over until synchronizing every single sound that came out from their beautiful mouths.
“Nothing, I don’t desire anything, I just want to go, please, I…” he managed the few words while writhing his hands together in pleading gestures.
“You walked in here all on your own. Whether you know it or not, you want something. Now, what is it?” the first gypsy almost snarled with a new demeanor, that of one who is about to lose patience and temper.
“Yes, you better tell us before my sister… well, she gets that way sometimes. And you don’t want to see her that way,” the second added quickly, as if she really did care about his fate.
“Come on, darling, there must be something,” the third’s voice floated warm around him, touching his skin and heart.
Thomas had no idea what they were talking about, he truly did believe this was either just a dream, or he had suffered a heat stroke, as nothing else could have explained the theatrical and outlandish nature of what was happening to him. This was all too much. Like a dream. Like a dream, he thought and then, out of nowhere, the idea came to him. What if? Oh, what if? What if I do ask for what I want?
As if they knew the thought that was forming, the three gypsies became quiet and simply backed away, just a few feet away, to give him enough room to express himself.
“Well, since I’m here… Can you… Oh no, this is so stupid, no one can do that…”
“What?”
“What?”
“What?”
All three in a chorus, all three voiced the question as one, curious but still patient. They knew it was never easy for people to believe they could make wishes come true. They had seen it happen a million times before, they had seen the wonder and disbelief, the questions on their faces, the doubt in their hearts, but above all, the absolute desire that this would be true. There had not been one human who didn’t eventually believe it. And so their magic worked every single time. They just needed to be patient, some times more than others.
Thomas still thought about it for a second. If they really could make his wish come true, then he would get what he always wanted, to finally write something so wonderful entire nations would rejoice in and praise, and prostrate to his genius as they did to their own gods. If it wasn’t true, then what did he have to lose? He would walk out of the tent, he would go back to his little cabin, gather his things and go home. Either way, he figured it was worth a try.
“Well, I’ve always wanted to be a writer, I want to write something so great that it’ll put the world at my feet, with everything that entails, the fame and the riches, the women and anonymous admirers, the fans and the parties, I want it all!” He said it all in one sentence, as if interrupting it would have broken a spell. He could already feel the anticipation rising inside him, he could hear the applause and the roar of the crowds gathered to catch a glimpse of him on the way to a book signing. He smiled, oblivious to the expressions on the faces of the three sisters.
“Well, that’s something, isn’t it,” the first one snickered.
“Yes, it is something, but it can be done,” the second said pleasantly.
“Shall we?”
The third one looked at the other two, and then, again in one voice, all three whispered, “Well need our other sister for this one”, the whole time smiling to themselves.
From behind a curtain Thomas hadn’t even noticed before, the fourth gypsy appeared as the three parted to make way for her. She was nothing like the three sisters; her lips were fuller, her hair with longer braids and heavier gold coins, her eyes more intense than any others, her magic inherently stronger.
She walked lightly, as if almost floating upon an invisible wave of air, she smiled as she reached her arms out for him. Thomas could do nothing to stop from being pulled towards her. His body obeyed her commands, and with a few steps, he was so close that he could sense the sweet smell of her lipstick. He tried to break eye contact, but his optical nerves refused. He was completely under her spell. She touched his face, grabbing his chin and moving his head to the left and to the right, as if to measure his worth by the look of his face, and then the fourth gypsy spoke:
“Are you sure that is what you want, Thomas? Have you considered it all? Have you?”
Even if he wanted to deny it, he was unable to. All he could do was look her in the eye, and then nod, fearful again, but hopeful at the same time.
“You have to say the words, Thomas, you have to say it,” she urged him.
“I’m sure! I’m sure it’s what I want!” he blurted out.
What happened next, he never really knew. He found himself between cream silk bed sheets when he woke up. The room was luxurious, just the way he had dreamed about so many times. Blinding natural light came in through enormous French windows, and there was hum of activity coming from below. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, as if trying to make sure this was not a dream. He pinched his arm, and shouted in pain. Still not believing, he started getting out of bed when a door to his right opened and his mother came through.
“There he is, my famous writer,” she approached the bed while trying to balance the breakfast tray on her arthritic hands. “Did you sleep well, my darling boy?” She smiled and set the tray next to him. “You need to eat something, your biggest book signing is today,” she motioned towards the eggs Benedict and freshly-squeezed orange juice.
Thomas never gave a second thought to the gypsies’ tent. He never wondered about the book he had written so unexpectedly and without even knowing it. He didn’t question anything at all. He had gotten his wish, and all he had to do was enjoy it. And enjoy, he did. Over the next decades, he harvested the fruits of the spell, he travelled the world to countries that adored him and proclaimed him “the greatest writer that ever lived”, he married and had children who enjoyed his fortune as well, he gambled and lost everything several times, although the money never stopped coming. His book broke all records known to man, and generations after generations bought it and read it, over and over again.
The night before his ninetieth birthday, he remembered the beach. He had never thought about it again, and he didn’t know why he was thinking about it now. There was something in his thoughts that didn’t belong to him, this desire to go back there and see if the tent still existed. He made the appropriate arrangements in the middle of the night, and he stood on that beach on his birthday. He found the tent exactly where he knew it would be, among the willows. Somehow, everything still looked the same. It just seemed that time hadn’t affected the place at all, as if it had just passed over it, ignoring it on purpose.
As he walked in, he recognized the tapestries and the ottomans, he smelled the sandalwood again, and he heard their voices. On their red velvet sofas, the three gypsies were reading the cards. As if they knew he was there, they looked up, smiled at each other, and quickly surrounded him. They were unchanged.
“Well?”
“Well?”
“Well?”
“How was it? Did you like it? Was it everything you thought it would be? Are you ready to come back now?”
Their words didn’t make much sense. Come back from what? Thomas wondered.
The gypsies danced around him to the sounds of the pan flute. As their skirts whirled and twirled, as they chanted again and whispered words he couldn’t make out, he became confused and scared, as he had been when he first entered the tent. In front of him, the fourth gypsy appeared out of nowhere.
“Yes, you are ready to come back, I see it,” she uttered in a low voice as she touched his face. This time, her touch felt different. It hurt. Her fingers ran slowly over his skin, and he felt tired. His body was heavy, and his legs couldn’t support its weight anymore. He blamed it on old age, as he sat down on the floor, overwhelmed and sleepy.
He was all alone when he woke up. The tent was gone, only the willows remained. He tried to get up and he felt pain in his old legs. He looked at himself and saw the shirt he wore that day, when he was young, when he only wished he would write a great novel. No one else was around. He became furious at the thought his staff abandoned him there. What kind of prank is this? He managed to get up and start walking. He didn’t recognize places, nor buildings, nor people. He walked and walked, until he finally reached a somewhat familiar house. It was his old cabin, now abandoned and in ruins. On the sidewalk, a homeless woman drank out of a brown bag, what he could only imagine was cheap liquor.
“Excuse me, do you live around here?” He asked and immediately felt stupid. It’s been too long, she wouldn’t know anything.
“I’ve lived around here all my life. What do you want?” The woman’s voice sounded harsh but somehow familiar.
“I was just wondering if… well, a friend of mine used to live in this house when we were young… I was just wondering what ever happened to him.”
The woman finally looked straight at him, and to his surprise, she started laughing hysterically.
“Oh, you mean the wanna-be writer?”
“The wanna-be writer?” Thomas was even more confused than before. “What do you mean the wanna-be writer? He was… is a famous writer,” he tried to convince the woman.
She continued laughing.
“No, you’re wrong, that young man just disappeared one day. No one could ever find him, no one knows what happened to him… that’s something, isn’t it?”
Thomas was in complete disbelief. He didn’t know what was happening. It couldn’t be, I don’t understand what she’s saying…
He left the woman and continued walking. In his mind, the past decades mixed with despair and teased him mercilessly. He didn’t know what was real and what was not. He didn’t know where to go. He just didn’t know anything anymore. He was old, at the end of his life, and it was a life he had never lived. Or had he? He continued walking while trying to figure things out.
Behind him, the homeless woman laughed. The fourth gypsy had done it again. One more mortal fooled, one more soul taken. She was insatiable, that one was! She raised her bottle and drank to her honor.