Blocked

By Judith Friscia

Writer’s block! Cafe posers; they type, and I’ve got nothing. She crammed her laptop into her bag, smooshed workout clothes underneath. Gym time.

Maybe not, they’re talking about a Netflix show! Must drop something near them and catch its name. Her pen tumbled down, and she leaned to overhear their conversation. But, then she tumbled, hard.

A concerned hand extended. “You okay? You’re bleeding.”

“Sure. What’s the show’s name?”

“Uh, House of Cards.”

Elbow oozing, she stuffed her laptop deeper inside the bag. With writer’s block buried as deep as her sports bra, she envisioned hours staring at all and nothing.