• A writer sits in her tousled bedroom. Staring at her laptop in great concentration, glaring at the small, blinking vertical line and wishing all the while that it would type the ideas in her brain out in colorful and attention grabbing words on its own. But alas she found she must do it herself. Sighing the woman places her head in her left hand. Closing her emerald eyes in frustration. The Face of this woman is, at this moment, tired and careworn, turning her pretty features into an aged mask of herself. Once again she looks upon the paragraph of her latest creation. Or rather, what will be her latest creation, if she can ever figure out what to write next!



    “The world was grey as the colors seemed to be washed away with the pouring rain. The white lights of the taxies flashed by as they drove a wife to the airport, a brother to his sisters house, and a father home to his daughter after a long day of work. All of them witnessing together a moment that will never again be repeated, for time whilst It repeats the sequence cannot repeat what is gone. The frigid air gently blew chilling the exposed skin of the few walking these deserted sidewalks. On of these few was a man. With wistful iron grey eyes he watched the procession go by.”


    She sighed, plopping her head ungracefully on the deck of her waiting computer. “Erg!” she growled. ‘Stupid writers block, I never have anything to say!’