"Wh-where am I?"
"Oh my dear! We certainly weren't expecting you today; we would have cleaned up a bit. Heh, you see, we're having a bit of a well technical difficulty." Said a round, rather pleasant woman wearing a polka-dot dress with a nametag simply saying "Dot."
I looked around; I was in a large, disorganized office with people and papers scrambling with bundles of copy paper. I grabbed a paper from the desk beside and read:
Boy with schizophrenia and his life with his imaginary
The ink faded out and I couldn't read the rest.
I picked up the paper and held it out to the woman demanding an answer.
"What is this? Who are you and what sort of place is this?"
"Well dear, that is an idea, yours actually, we've been having a problem with our machine, we seem to be having a problem with the machine, everything seems to be, well, -er, faded and rather dull."
"Yes, but where did you get it?"
"Get it? My dear, I made it. I'm in charge of this whole operation, well so are you, but I'm in charge up here. You are standing right in the core of your imagination."
"My imagination? And how did I get here, may I ask?"
"Well the imagination carrier generally doesn't come to the core unless there is a serious problem, either with us or the carrier. Don't you know why you've come? Try to think back to what happened right before you showed up here."
I tried to think, where had I been? The phones on the other side of the rooms all started to ring.
A man in an office uniform answered the phone and shouted over to us, "Dot? I've got the memory center on the line telling me that they've got a paper jam and asking us if we can send someone over, can we spare anyone?"
Dot groaned, "Ugh, well I guess we can spare a person or two, why don't you run over there and just see what you can do."
Then it struck me, "Oh! I had just fallen asleep when I woke up here; I dozed off at my desk you see."
"Never mind! They just called back and said they took care of it." Shouted the man.
"Hm, well you're a writer, right?"
"Define writer, I haven't written in ages."
"Ah! Well that would do it. You came here so that you could get an idea since they clearly aren't going through the machine well. You see, all of your ideas, both the brilliant ones and the not so brilliant ones, pass through here first, we don't make them up per se, but we do process them and feed them to you in the most eloquent way we can. We have noticed that we haven't been getting a lot of ideas lately, and the ones we have been getting are rather faded and won't go through the machine where you can receive them."
"Well, even if I did get them I can't say that I'll do anything with them."
"Gahh! That's probably why we haven't been getting many ideas, if you consciously refuse to use them, then your subconscious mind will slowly stop making them and sending them to us. Don't you remember how good you were when you were younger? Why don't you pick up the pen again? It can't hurt."
And my head jerked back and I was back at my office as suddenly as I had left. I looked up at the clock; it was just about time for my lunch break. Then my printer started to whir and a single sheet of paper slid out of the tray.
A girl recovers from her writers block in the most obscure way possible.