Bare
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helenlaycockWriter: short stories, flash, poetry
Autoplay OFF  •  5 months ago
Edward is a writer, but his mind is blank.
This is a 100-word piece of flash fiction.

Bare

by helenlaycock

Like puppets, shadows polka’d up the walls and across the table as the stumpy candle flickered in the jam jar, its veins spilling into a waxy puddle.

Edward stared at the paper in front of him. It was dying. Parched, jaundiced and, undoubtedly, jaded, it curled self-consciously, like Eve covering her nudity.

His pen reclined, nonplussed, in the criss-crossed cushion between thumb and forefinger.

Forty-three days he had sat like this. For forty-three days he had floated in the vacuous space inside his skull.

A moth clicked against the glass. Swooped. Erupted. Still Edward was unable to write anything.

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