Another mid-winter sun had all but slipped behind the smouldering stacks of the Mulligan Brewery. Out in the street, neighbourhood children played in the fresh snow.
In descending gloom, the flickering monitor showed a single sentence – as it had done since before breakfast. My once boundless inspiration was now reduced to fleeting, elusive drips.
The front door clicked shut. A familiar, comforting hand was placed on my knotted shoulder. ‘Hi, honey. How’s it going?’ she said.
‘Great. Nearly done,’ I lied, closing the lid of my notebook.
I’d given up my job for this. Perhaps tomorrow would be a better day.
These words form my entry into Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.