Writer’s Block

By Jet Black

It had been such a long time since she had written anything. She remembered when picking up a pen was as eagerly done as a spider eats flies. Where were the stories now? Secreted away in dark corridors of unreliable memory.

Taking herself for a walk, she noticed the smallest things: a robin on a tree stump, the mild breeze brushing her arms and bringing scents of mown grass to her nose, water tumbling noisily over the weir, and the thrill as cyclists pedalled speedily past.

Slowly, slowly, words returned, an itch in her hand proclaimed a readiness to write again.