Description: This is a warm story I did about a month back (something I encourage all writers to do with writers block). I just thought of something and went with it. Took my about forty minutes and has 882 words. I cant ensure its quaility, but let me know what you think.

As the door swung inward, I found a massive throbbing abyss waiting on the other side. A black hole of pure decay and ignorance that reached out and threatened to drag in every ounce of logic I hold dear, along with myself. The darkness began to expand as the dogmatic hurricane thrashed even more violently.

Papers from my chamber desk began to fly by and vanish into the void. Not just any papers, but my life work. Stories that I put blood and ink into. Each piece seemed to dissolve into that nothingness. Why was this happening?

A dark voice erupted from within the depths the darkness before me.

"Stories? These pieces of shit arent even worthy to wipe the ass of my dog!"

"You are wrong!" I called back in vain. "You do not understand the quality of litur-" My voice was drowned out as the winds magnified tenfold. I could no longer hold my ground, and found myself hurtling into that endless abyss.

However, I did not fall forever as I thought I would. For the longest time, all I felt was a harsh coldness. But after the passing of an eternity, I felt myself find solid ground.

Once I summed up the courage to open my eyes, I beheld a magnificent dark hallway. The floors and walls seemed to be made of marble, while where the ceiling would have been was an endless sky of swirling thunderclouds. I have never seen the likes of this place before, and may never in my life.

I dared myself to explore, and it was several minutes before I came to a place on the wall that was made of what seemed to be a thin clear film. On the other side I saw a man hunched over a table that was littered with notebook paper and what looked to be quills and a dried up ink bottles. I looked closer to see what he was fiddling with and gasping in shock.

With his right hand, he held his index finger to the paper and was tracing some kind of letters. The other hand held a knife that was slicing deep into his right wrist. The blood flowed from the laceration like a small crimson stream and ran down to the point of the finger that was pressed to the paper.

He mumbled lightly to himself but never looked up. I could not make out what he was saying. I finally managed to pry myself from where I stood and continued down the hall.

I found many of these "cells", each with an occupant that was severally distressed. Each one worse than the last. What frightened me was when I started to recognize the faces of the prisoners.

I was shocked to find a favorite bizzaro writer of mine. Shane Cartledge sat in the corner of his cell curled into a ball and crying hysterically, "The shades are down! The shades are down!"

Horrified does not come close to describing the images that flashed before me. One after another, it only got worse. I think I have found the root of madness for all writers. Maybe a new circle of hell?

What saddens me, is that I have yet to reach the climax of my journey..

As I approach a wide wooden table in the middle of the hall, a new sense of dread is installed into me. On the table was piles and piles of manuscripts that have began to yellow with age, and on top of those was an open laptop. The light from the screen revealed the most gruesome creation I have ever witnessed.

It had the body of a man, but the skin was a pasty gray and seemed as if it could peel by only scraping your finger nails against it. Where its head would be, was three. All of them were bald and serpent-like. Where its eyes should be were only empty sockets, and its mouths were caked in dried saliva while fresh spittle dripped from the corners to the keyboard below. The smell that radiated from this beast hinted that it has been wallowing in its own filth for some time.

It is not the root of madness I have found, but of ignorance. This is the creature that has spread to the hearts of the closed minded and jealous. It damns art, or anything, that it cannot understand and berates the artist until they reach a point of breaking and fall into this pit of absence.

It all makes sense now. I have let myself tumble into the hatefulness of those who will not understand what it is that I try to create by lowering my self respect to accommodate what they think is good. Maybe it is best not to seek gratification from the masses, but from the fact that we are proud of our own works.

As long as we alone are proud of what we create, we will rise above the tide of ignorance that has swelled in the last years of modern media.

Once we can rise from this pit, it will only by a matter of time until we are able to see the morning once more; and then we can chase the horizons that once inspired us so greatly.