I sat under the tall tree, engulfed by mist. My notebook lay beside me, tattered and torn. The short, dull pencil lay on top of it. I always wrote here. But today I couldn't. I couldn't write of my knights and princesses, animals, vampires, romances, and any other story that came to mind. Today, my mind was blank. Today, I had the worst case of writer's block possible. Today, I needed inspiration. I listened to the wind; to the pages of my notebook fluttering. I lifted out to close the notebook. Instead, my hand went into it. I screamed.