Writer Blocked

The morning haze dissolves, and the fields burn gold under piercing blue. Wisps of cloud slowly scroll across the view, lazily floating on a distant breeze bringing glimmers of respite as the heat builds. The harsh light renders crisp shadows, overhanging branches mirrored black on tarmac.

The heat descends, shimmering air closes on the landscape and a dull stillness takes hold. Beads of sweat on skin catch the faintest breeze, long grass sways and all around is quiet. Soft sounds drift through the air, animals and insects quietly complain, subdued and lifeless.

Somewhere a story unfolds, an everday tale unwinds in the steamy heat.

Perhaps a stooped man, slowly picking his way through the maze of heat as he makes his way home. Rough hands and sweated shirt, work boots trailing dust behind him. He looks tired and weary, but we are unsure why. Is it from where he has been, or where he is going?

Perhaps a woman, summer dress swirling as the fan picks its way across the room, her hair pinned up out of the heat, hot tin miaows above. Distracted she is waiting for something. For him, for release, or for a saviour?

The story will twist now, buckled and melted until all is lost, no steps to retrace, no characters to be developed and exposed, no raw negatives turned to light.

But not here.

There is no story here only the beginnings, the sounds and posturing. The rest remains hidden, locked away from the world, turned to dust.

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