How to strike loose a writer’s block.

My hands wouldn’t write what I wanted them to, so I went at both of them with the largest hammer I could find in the house.

As I slipped in my own blood and fell towards the floor, it occurred to me that the pain I felt was more satisfying than any poetry I’d ever scribbled down on the blue-lined tear-streaked pages I called a journal.

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Writer’s Block

He paced all morning, never far from the window – stopping every three or four times around to peer out, stretching his eyes for a glimpse of her, but she was never there. When he tried to write to her even that didn’t work; what he settled on at last was writing simply “Your Valentine loves you” before he folded the scrap of paper and pushed it through the bars, to drift like a butterfly to the ground outside far below.

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Love Song

Sweat glistened on bodies joined in carnal dance, trickled over softly rounded landscapes, dipped into secret valleys, while the frenzy increased. After echoes of the last soaring crescendo diminished, the slickened bodies separated, heartbeats slowed, and passion cooled the weeping love had ignited.

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The Hat

The sterile white hat with its lipstick-red cherries that Margie had intended to wear at her daughter’s wedding before she’d eloped with the plumber, had been exiled in her wardrobe.
But after the good news from her daughter Margie decided that the hat would do for the christening instead.

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The Wedding Reception

The bride was beautiful; the wedding every bit as solemn and religious as she had planned and the long reception line as dignified as an audience with the queen.

Nobody had noticed the little ring bearer slip away until he poked his head out from underneath the bride’s billowing gown to a chorus of gasps and guffaws.

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Let tranquility reign from beginning to end of earth today and everyday so the weapons of war become silent evermore. Warfare has no purpose other than to establish the superior man, what will become when there is only one man remaining?

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Rethinking My Motives

As I woke to the oddly-smelling, dirty motel room, I reflected on why I was here. It was all because of an argument, and now there was a strange woman with me in a strange place, and I had an odd-looking rash where rashes oughtn’t be; why do these things happen to me?

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