He vehemently stared at the screen.
Technopathy failed. Nothing creative or profound had materialized in his thoughts or Word Processor. His muse was an unsurprising no-show. Why waste inspiration on atrocious writers like him? Right?
“What’s up?” She asked.
“Suffering.” He typed a paragraph.
“Food’s getting cold.”
“Cool.” He deleted everything.
“Hurry… Eat.” She rested a full plate between them. “You’re probably hungry.”
“Probably am…” He reached for the plate.
Stomach’s tight. Extremely lethargic.
He hadn’t eaten sinc-
Pap!
She slapped the biscuit out of his hand. “Food’s on the stove.”
“Seriously?” He asked.
“Grab yourself a plate.”
Well, damn.
darrionjwrites 