Writing: A short short

“I got nothin’,” the writer sighed, setting her bright pen down carefully on the stark white page, “I can’t even get a first sentence out tonight.”

“You know,” a voice filtered through the fog, “It’s been said that writer’s block happens when your imaginary friends refuse to talk to you.”

“Oh they’re talking to me,” she replied absentmindedly, not thinking to wonder where the voice had come from, “But unless you want me to write my Short Story Sunday piece on whose hair looks better today, they’re pretty useless right now.”

“Maybe that should be your story,” the whisper hissed helpfully, slowly fading as though the unseen person were backing away from her stone bench. “The non-story of how you don’t have any prompts…”

“Maybe…thank you,” she turned to smile at her advisor, but there was no one to be seen. Just the empty lake front and her, sitting alone in the chilly air. “Huh, a non-story,” she picked her pen up again, not giving much thought to her mysterious aid, she had learned long ago to not to. “Naw, that would never work!”  

 

 

        (Photos taken by me, Elizabeth S. Tyree, during the fall of 2012 at the Chickasaw National Recreation Area in Sulphur, Ok.)

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