“Remember,” she said to her client, “just because you can’t think of anything new to write this moment doesn’t mean the world is going to end.”
The poet agreed and wished his agent a good night as she walked to the garden gate.
She didn’t make it.
No one did.
Harris Coverley wrote this story.
Ready to write, with research, outline and tea, she grimaced after a sip. “No sugar!”
Darker, a breeze ruffled papers and grey horses galloped across the sun.
Flocks of argumentative birds settled like a blanket; the scent of rain lured them.
As drops fell, all was gathered, again without yield.
Susan Cornford is a retired public servant, living in Perth, Western Australia. To date, she has (co)won only one competition but has been short-listed or made finalist for numerous others. She has pieces published or forthcoming in 50-Word Stories, Antipodean Science Fiction, Ghost Parachute, Speculative 66, Subtle Fiction, Switchblade, The Fable Online, The Gambler and The Vignette Review. She now considers herself an emerging flash writer.
It couldn’t be that hard.
Weeks of careful planning were in place.
She lacked one final step: action.
A glance at her watch told her she was out of time. It was now or never.
She put pen to paper, paused, digging deep, before finally succumbing to a consistent flow.
Hillary enjoys sending words to Tim’s house for consideration when her mind wanders away from the autobiographical words that most often claim all the blank pages at her house.
“I can’t write ’cause of you!” she screamed, tears streaming down her face. “You make too much noise, invade my personal space, and dry up my imagination!”
Silence ensued when she stopped.
Looking up, she realized there was no one else in the house, just her and her writer’s block.
Debbi Antebi lives in Istanbul, Turkey, tweets from @debbisland, and blogs at debbiantebi.com.