The writer couldn’t write the way she used to. Her wiry hands hung heavy above the keyboard as she watched the screen blur and wave. The handful of words that had somehow made it shuddered before her, as if they knew they’d be subject to the ‘delete’ key.
Writing, for her, had always been therapeutic; an embrace, an escape – a way to make sense of the world. Yet she was as lost as the characters she couldn’t conjure; clueless to the plot she couldn’t think up. She lit another cigarette, took a sip of her coffee, and smirked at the image of herself.
The curser moved and her green eyes reflected the glow of Google. She typed. It felt good. She followed all the prompts and, before she caved into her fear, ticked the terms and conditions, pressed ‘confirm’ and exhaled.
Later that night, Tracy Chapman played on the radio; ‘she’s got her ticket, I think she’s gonna use it, I think she’s gonna fly away.’ And she did.