Nowriblo
Nowriblo: (say "no-wri-blo" or nəʊrʌɪblɒ) A stubborn refusal to be defeated by the dreaded writer's block
The dying roses echoed the pain stinging my heart.
No.
It just wouldn’t do. I had been staring at these words on the screen for over an hour and just couldn’t bring them to life.
The wilting blooms reflected my wilting heart.
No, no, no, no, no! That was worse than ever. I wished for the hundredth time that I still had the Olivetti. With the laptop, there’s no paper to pull out, scrunch up and throw away.
I got up and flung open the window for some fresh air. It didn’t stay fresh for long – I soon had a cigarette between my lips, a flame warming the loose strands at the end.
Staring out over the rolling Chiltern hills, I spotted a red kite in the distance, and tried to conjure up some similes.
The swooping kite soared like … like ... The bloody buzzard begat bugger-all in the brains of the bastard bardling!
I headed back to my desk, remembering I needed to call Jane to rearrange the date she'd cancelled yesterday. I dialled the number.
“Hi darling, it’s me. Free for dinner tonight?”
“Look,” she said. “I don’t know how to say this but ... I’m seeing someone else. It’s over, Jake.”
My heart sank, the precious bloom of my love trampled by the sweet assassin. Wait! That’s it! I turned to the screen, fingertips poised over the home keys.
Okay, it wasn’t that good, but it was a start.
About the Creator
Raymond G. Taylor
Author based in Kent, England. A writer of fictional short stories in a wide range of genres, he has been a non-fiction writer since the 1980s. Non-fiction subjects include art, history, technology, business, law, and the human condition.
Keep reading
More stories from Raymond G. Taylor and writers in Fiction and other communities.
The wayward witch
Breezes calm and waters placid . Render this man's member flaccid! With these words Morwenna cast the corn dolly into the duck pond. She had made the crude image from a few strands of straw picked that morning from the wheat field nearby. She attached a tiny twist of wool she picked up from the hedge where some sheep had been herded earlier. The twist of wool was what made it a boy dolly rather than a girl. Not just any boy, the effigy was intended to represent the young man who had, the night before, refused Morwenna's clumsy advances.
By Raymond G. Taylor6 months ago in Fiction
Hall of mirrors
Things used to matter, before all the noise. And at that time when things still had meaning, there had been dreaming too, when dreams still mattered. And the brightest dream from those times was full of mountains and seas and smiles and the types of passion that absorbs you the way a dog is absorbed by witnessing something for the first time: with absolute presence, and awe.
By Giulia Viti7 days ago in Fiction
World in Tatters Ch. 34
We ride through the night and morning. We’re exhausted. The soldiers are exhausted. I’m sure Richard’s exhausted too, not that he’d show it. I ride toward the front of the caravan near Richard and Kiera. Unlike everyone else, Richard sits straight up on his horse, jaw set, intense eyes locked on the horizon.
By Kevin Barkman3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Heartbreak is often a cure to writers block, lol. Loved your word and story!