A teacup empty but for dregs and a tidemark
Like puppets, shadows polka'd up the walls and across the table as the stumpy candle flickered in the jam jar, its veins spilling into a waxy puddle.
Edward stared at the paper in front of him. It was dying. Parched, jaundiced and, undoubtedly, jaded, it curled self-consciously, like Eve covering her nudity.
His pen reclined, nonplussed, in the criss-crossed cushion between thumb and forefinger.
Forty-three days he had sat like this. For forty-three days he had floated in the vacuous space inside his skull. A moth clicked against the glass. Swooped. Erupted. Still Edward was unable to write anything.
About the author
Helen Laycock has written nine books for children as well as having put together two compilations of short stories and a collection of humorous poetry for adults. In addition, she has work included in an anthology produced by her online writing group.
Several further pieces are due to be included in forthcoming publications as a result of competition success. This is her second 100-worder for CaféLit.