He’d had them knock down the wall where his brother’s sword had hung. Knock it down and break it into chunks fit for building a cairn. It seemed fitting somehow. The longhouse was a ruin anyway.
Uther watched while they fit the last of the jagged blocks into place. The noise of the knappers and leather workers shouting behind him made him grind his teeth in frustration. Couldn’t they give him just a few moments of quiet? He knew it was war time, but they were putting his brother to rest. There would always be war. Today should be a time to reflect.
a slice of fiction
Writing Prompt: Then came the hackers, or that’s what I thought.
Then came the hackers, or so she thought.
In truth, the numbers were off. She spent some time looking the numbers over before finally deciding that it was a waste of time. The truth was that it was almost always ghosts. Revenants of centuries past, mucking about in the systems. She sighed, finger hovering over the Delete key. She hated removing them. They seemed so lonely and desperate for contact.
And just like that….
I am having trouble writing, today. I have feelings (many of them good, actually), but there exists this block between my head and my fingers.
I can feel around the edges of the block, feel the cool, sweet air just on the other side of it. But I cannot move it.
I think that it might be red streaked with black, but I haven’t a clue. Every time I try to get a glimpse of it, it skitters away.
Moving writers’ blocks.
What WILL they think of next?
I think that this wall, this thing that is preventing my writing is this probably self-generated. I think it is an accumulation of rust and disuse. Like the gears and coils of a bombed out British clock shop.
Maybe, she thought, maybe if I just apply a little elbow grease and resolve, I can clean up this place. Make it habitable again. A place of rest and excitement and color, again.
I could do it, she thought. It would just take a little patience. And practice.
And practice.
The Process 