Writer's Life

As all my stories of the past this one began with “once”: “Once upon a time . . .” Now what? The rest of the lined three-ring-binder filler remained blank and I was stuck. Now what? As I often did, I closed my eyes and tried to let my thoughts run free. Now what?

My thoughts were just beginning to drift when my cell began to ring a muffled tune. I recognized the ring as the one my girlfriend had declared hers. Damn. I stood, knocking over my flimsy, orange, plastic school-chair and jarring the card table I used as a desk. For a split second time seemed to slow down and I watched as the coffee I had forgotten about until now tipped, spilling it’s contents across the mostly blank page. The dark liquid flowed over the table and off the edge, landing on the cream-colored rug just as my phone stopped ringing.

For a while I just stood there, staring at that puddle as it soaked into the carpet. After a time I looked over my shoulder at the clock: 9 a.m.. “Today’s going to be interesting,” I said and began to laugh

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