I cannot write, he thought. The empty laptop screen radiated white heat. I cannot write, he typed. The text cursor halted abruptly, blinking impatiently. Brain empty now. His fingers hovered motionless, petrified over unpressed keys. Minutes passed, hours, maybe days. He gave in to stock words, idle text, anything to quell the silence. He wrote of quick brown foxes and lazy dogs, of jumping and falling and sweeping and soaring until his words took to skies of their own. The word count increased, the workload reduced; he was spent. He snapped the lid firmly shut. “I cannot write,” he sighed.
Closing date is January 31st.
This is Frisk,