Stones from the Writer's Block

“It was a dark and stormy night.”

Frustrated, Alan threw down his pen and ripped the page out of his notebook. Another worthless beginning. As though he needed any more of those. How did the authors do it, especially those that churned out books every three or four months? Even if he could come up with a decent beginning, he knew he’d never be able to finish even the first draft before a year was up.

Sighing, he rose from his chair, putting his notebook in his back pocket. No use searching for inspiration where the mines were empty. One car ride and he could entertain himself without straining his limited income.

A hop and a skip and some gasoline later, he arrived at his destination. The junkyard. Always a particularly fantastic place to practice his rock-tossing skills at the less fortunate vehicles. Throwing rocks accurately was the one talent he had that he could always rely on. He picked up an oval rock, and aimed at the windshield of a van.

Unfortunately for him, that van was occupied.

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