Writer Interrupted.

Sunday. The pale peach-pink glow of the sunset paints the side of the dirty white building. The sky hasn’t begun to darken yet, but the shadows stretch and skew, languid acrobats of darkness. This is the time occupants of flats appear on balconies, like animals creeping out of the undergrowth. There, on the fifth floor, she darts around, collecting pieces of clothing from the line. Her motions are quick and practiced as she folds each item carefully. A full basket later, a new batch of wet clothing comes – a change of the guard.

The chore is complete. The sun sinks like a rock in water, its rays hidden by the

FUCK’S SAKE! The thought escapes me.

hidden by the concrete statues that are the blocks of flats. The light is fading fast. Warm hues of pink and orange give way to cool blue.

There it is again. The slightest elusive hint of inspiration. I can almost feel the euphoria sinking into my heart. The beauteous ease of composition is mine once aga-

NO! I don’t want anything. Just leave me alone. Another interruption. A question about food of all things. I’ve just eaten food! Sustenance is very low on my list of problems right now. I need to write! Of course, the thought vanishes into thin air. Can I not have a moment of silence?

It’s not your fault. It is my fault for not writing as often as I promised myself. It is my fault. I must find a prompt today. Complete something, some form of creative work. I must write before the self-doubt sets in, soft moss upon a stone. And once it grabs hold, it is incredibly difficult to shake off – like a dog’s fleas. The itch must be scratched.

I want to write until my fingers hurt. Until they bleed.






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