A morning like any other. A job like any other. Why had he become a short story writer? The sun was already shining when the most of his neighbors had gone to work. He was watching them. Observing their routines from his living room window. They leave their homes in the morning and come back in the evening. Day by day, week by week. He was the only one who stayed. Doomed to live in this misery. Trapped in his own four walls with the urge to deliver. A nervous glimpse on the clock. Seven hours left. The deadline is coming closer.

Photo by Jiarong Deng on Pexels.com

The bright midday sun interrupted his thoughts. He had still not written a single word. The neighborhood was quiet. Some birds singing in the garden. He was staring out the window like he was used to do. 3 hours left. He wouldn’t make it on time. But money wasn’t his only problem. His hands sitting on top of the keyboard. Ready to engage. But the screen showed nothing. A blank white page. The cars driving by increased. The clock agreed. His neighbors would start to come back. A story? He ain’t gonna have a story. A day like any other.

See you next time!

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