I gritted my teeth and smashed a vase against the wall. I could not believe what had happened. The demon had possessed me again.

It haunted my dreams, colored my sleep with paranoia, and made me shake in my pajamas by day. It was the nightmarish entity feared and despised by all, from graduate students writing their final research papers to first graders trying to compose their own versions of Cinderella to Victorian-era novelists like Charlotte Brontë.

Writer’s block.

It had snaked its way into my veins and slid its ugly tentacles around my heart, suffocating that source of all innovation. I could no longer write stories.

           I picked up a delicate floral glass bowl and hurled it at the wall. Someone screamed.

“SORAYA! What are you doing?!”

Someone stomped up to my door and flung it open. I glared at the girl defiantly. My older sister, Seraphina.

           “What in the galaxy are you doing?!” she demanded furiously.

           I clenched my fists. “Letting out my frustration.” Regrettably, Seraphina would never understand the misery of writer’s block. She was the type of girl who lived and breathed stories, relentless and incessant in her creativity. “You know, Sera,” I continued, “You’re always telling me ‘expressing myself’ is the key to good stories. I am simply expressing my frustration.”

Seraphina rolled her eyes. “Not that type of self-expression, Soraya. You’ll never be able to write anything in that state of mind.”

          “Well,” I said dejectedly, “Do you have any other suggestions as to how I can express myself—ahem—correctly?”

She slammed a heavy book down on my desk. “This is the Book of Personification. Rumor has it Shakespeare used it for his work.”

I glanced at the book, eyebrows raised. It was torn and battered and the brown leather cover was nicked in multiple places. I couldn’t imagine it being the cure to any type of writer’s block. The only thing Shakespearean about it was its age.

“Sera,” I said carefully, “No offense, but I don’t think this tome will help me.”

“Oh, honestly, Soraya, don’t argue with me. Besides, we all know you need any help you can get. You’re clearly too hopeless to write any stories on your own.”

           I opened my mouth to protest, but she was out of the door with that cutting remark. I looked at my desk again in frustration, taking in the Book of Personification with its aged leather cover and scrawled text. Maybe it would help after all. I flipped it open to the first page.

           The text was handwritten in such curly and whimsical calligraphy that I couldn’t make out the first letter of the first sentence on the first page. I leaned in closer, trying to make out the words. This book was really more trouble than it was worth. The letters blurred even further on the page, and suddenly I felt inexplicably drowsy. My hand slipped off the book, and I felt myself fall in...to the book, apparently.

            I was quite certain I was dreaming. I opened my eyes to discover that I had fallen into a seat of some kind—a stone seat, next to hundreds—no, thousands—of others.

           There were strange-looking people around me. Some of them had bright orange or pink hair. Others had enormous eyes, or noses, or heads. And they were all seated in raised stone chairs circling a stage set in the middle of what seemed to be a courtyard.

           I glanced at the person (creature?) next to me. He had green hair and enormous eyes the size of ceiling fans. “What’s going on?” I whispered to him.

           He didn’t seem at all concerned that I had materialized in the seat next to him without warning. To the contrary, he appeared to be focused. Stressed, almost.

           “What’s going on?” I repeated.

           “Don’t you know?” he answered without even glancing at me. “The trial. The Society for the Prevention of Creativity and Imagination—the SPCI for short—is deciding the fate of Hyperbole! It’s going to be SO MUCH FUN.”

           “What?” I asked intelligently.

           When I said this he turned and looked at me intently, smiling wryly and with an air of sardonic humor. “You’re not from here, are you? My name’s Sarcasm, and this is my twin sister, Wit.” He gestured toward the young woman seated next to him. She had glittery silver skin paired with mocha-colored hair and copper eyes.

           “Um, hi?” I managed weakly.

           Wit smirked. “You’re going to have a blast here. It’s always hilarious when newbies watch. They don’t understand the power of the SPCI. Of course, I’m sure you’ll be different, seeing as how you’re clearly so intelligent and well-informed.”

           “I—I don’t get it—” I began nervously.

           “Ooh, what eloquent speech,” Sarcasm proclaimed sarcastically.

           “Yes, she obviously possesses great depth of thinking,” Wit added, not to be outdone. “Such cognitive prowess.”

           I stared at them in abject confusion. Then I gasped audibly as an inordinately loud and booming voice emanated from the speakers, which were mounted somewhere I couldn’t see. “Welcome,” a man’s deep voice said. “Please turn off your Writing Devices and pay attention. Madame Laconicism, bring out the accused!”

           Madame Laconicism was a person, a woman with dark green lipstick and a condescending expression. She dragged a man to the center of the stage, where a table and a few chairs were set up. All the chairs were occupied except one. The man was shoved violently into the only remaining vacant seat.

           “Read out the crime,” the announcer boomed.

           Madame Laconicism produced a small half-sheet of paper and started to read. “Hyperbole broke the law.”

“Er, Madame, perhaps you could elaborate,” a woman from the audience said. “That’s rather vague.”

Madame Laconocism turned around and glared at her. “Miss Lucidity, you know I don’t like using too many words.”

Miss Lucidity frowned. “I think you ought to express yourself with greater eloquence. This trial will never proceed in time if you cannot even bring yourself to describe, in detail, the crimes of the accused.”

“Oh, very well,” Madame Laconicism huffed. “I shall elaborate. It seems Hyperbole is guilty of promoting excessive descriptiveness and using too much creativity in his newspaper article.”

           The people in the raised stone seats gave a collective gasp.

           Madame Laconicism sat down and a different man with flaxen hair stood up. “As you all know, the Law Enforcement Council of the SPCI does not approve of imagination and creativity. This is because we all believe in the prohibitive power of Sir Writer’s Block. When we suppress free thought, Sir Writer’s Block will prevail. And we all declare our allegiance to him.”

           Utterly flabbergasted and mystified beyond description, I watched as a tall, dark-haired man in a tweed suit stood up. All the other men and women at the table instantly saluted him.

           “I condemn Hyperbole to prison for life,” Sir Writer’s Block declared. “Such a use of descriptiveness and creativity simply cannot be permitted in a stable society. Unfortunately, before we can officially sentence Hyperbole, we must hear his case.” Here, he gave an exaggerated sigh. “All allies of the accused, please stand.”

           Immediately, Sarcasm and Wit stood up, along with several other people.

           “You may speak.” Sir Writer’s Block glared condescendingly.

           A man with vibrant orange hair raised his hand. “Sir, you are being as hateful as a demonic snake. This man is as innocent as a newborn child. He has demonstrated his vast knowledge of literature by painting a slightly exaggerated picture of the local news. He is just as intelligent and valuable a citizen as the rest of us here. I assure you, he is as harmless as a baby mouse.”

           Sir Writer’s Block rolled his dark eyes. “Mr. Simile, your evidence is rejected. Hyperbole is still guilty and will remain so. Onto the next ally.”

           The woman who spoke next was blond and petite, with an incredibly long nose and ten-inch high heels. She had a high, prim voice. “I hereby believe that Hyperbole is honest and innocent. He, Hyperbole, is humble and humane. Hyperbole is neither harsh nor hateful.”

           “Miss Alliteration, you present no concrete evidence against Hyperbole’s guilt. Onto the next of his allies.” Sir Writer’s Block glowered with contempt and disdain at the group of people standing in favor of Hyperbole.

           On and on it went. Personification spoke, along with Dr. Onomatopoeia, who went on a colorful (and sound-effect-filled) tirade about how wonderful Hyperbole was. Rhyme and Rhythm, the identical twin sisters, each presented long, lyrical poems detailing the reasons why Hyperbole was innocent. Mrs. Paradox and her younger cousin Oxy Moron gave lengthy sermons, both of which, alas, made no sense whatsoever, and involved many highly complex conundrums. Allusion alluded to the fact that Hyperbole was kind and gentle and not guilty, and referred to several obscure literary texts in the process.

           At the end of it all, a visibly bored Sir Writer’s Block said, “Now, now, that’s quite enough of this nonsensical testimony. Hyperbole included exaggerated depictions of characters in his newspaper article, which is a clear demonstration of imagination and creativity. Therefore, Hyperbole has obviously violated the code of ethics established by the SPCI. He has been given a trial and is now found guilty. Madame Laconicism, take him in!”

           “My word, this is unfairer than the Great Famine of Ireland!” Hyperbole spluttered as he was forcibly led away to be imprisoned. “I am angrier than a feuding warlord! I simply cannot imagine why—”

           “Hey.” Sarcasm, who had sat back down a few moments ago, seemed to realize something. I watched as he stood up once more. “We can’t let Hyperbole be arrested. All he ever did was express some creativity.” For once in a way, Sarcasm’s words were untainted by his usual mocking tone and arrogant demeanor. “Wit, come on! We have to save him!”

           Throughout the courtyard, people were rising in protest.

           “It’s not right!” I heard someone shout. “Sir Writer’s Block can’t arrest him!”

           “We shouldn’t suppress imagination!”

           “Creativity will prevail!”

           “Hyperbole enriches our literature!”

           And then people were spilling out of their seats, chasing after Sir Writer’s Block and Madame Laconicism. I followed everyone as they caught up to Hyperbole and dragged him out of Madame Laconicism’s clutches.

           “We’ve got him,” someone said. “Let’s go!”

           The crowd was so dense and the noise was so loud that I couldn’t even hear the announcer’s booming voice. Sir Writer’s Block was gesticulating wildly, evidently on the verge of hysteria, furious that his imaginative captive had been rescued. The man who was holding Hyperbole led the crowd out of the courtyard.

           I was just a few feet away from the exit when I tripped on a stone and fell. I hit my head sharply on the concrete, and then all went black.

***

“Hey, Soraya,” someone said. I cracked open my eyes to find myself looking into Seraphina’s frosty blue ones. She was giving me a rare smile.

           It goes without mentioning that I was incredibly disoriented. “Sera?” I gasped. “Where’s Hyperbole? We need to save him! Sir Writer’s Block—he was taking Hyperbole to prison—”

           Seraphina raised one pale eyebrow and a look of bewilderment crossed her porcelain features. “Hmm? When I tried to read the Book of Personification, I saw a different scene.”

           “The—the book?” I sat up and noticed that the Book of Personification was in Sera’s hands. “What are you doing with the—”

           Seraphina sighed. “I told you this book was special, didn’t I? It’s a tool for combatting Writer’s Block.”

           “So all of that was real?” I asked, confused. “Hyperbole and Sarcasm and Alliteration and everyone?”

           Sera shrugged.

           “Or maybe it was a dream?” I blathered on, oblivious to Sera’s amused expression. “Or perhaps it was a daydream? Maybe it was all in my imagination?”

           Seraphina laughed. “Oh, love. Just because it was a dream—does that make it any less real?” She smiled and exited the room gracefully.

“Wait! Sera…” My voice trailed off as ideas started to course through my head. I flipped my laptop open.

The demon had possessed me again...but this time, Writer’s Block would not win.