Another week. Daily, the unseen pull grows stronger, until the mid-week mirror lures us Narcissus-like to stare into its smooth surface for our inspiration.
No refuge. The tentacles of creation wind ’round us, dragging us inexorably toward the keyboard to satisfy the craving. Sweet addiction! Our drug of choice.
Go on; give in. Choose your word-weapon. Wield it fearlessly.
You are a Fictioneer!
…..
Warrior Genre: Poetry He lay, sweating, behind the rocks weighted down with the implements of death and survival always vigilant. He returned (better off than many) sometimes cringing at loud noises enduring headaches and bad dreams. He stood, sweating, by the barn the air freighted with the scent of summer swathed in silence. He was good with his hands thought how he’d reclaim the land prayed it might make him sane again. He observed a shadow overhead (only a hawk in this time and place dropping like a bomb towards lunch.) He lay, sweating, in the fragrant grass mind mercifully blank sleeping, beginning.
This, that and the other thing 