By Raymond Sloan
I couldn’t make it work. I sat raking my fingers through my hair, sucking in long desperate breaths as I slipped up on another obvious plot-hole. I was planted, till I got it right. I consumed my water in deliberating sips, going over the banal detail again and again. Sounding it out to the four grey walls, focusing on a static fly as I uttered the tale.
In the end, I couldn’t make sense of the absolute mess I’d written, so I scrapped the paper and produced the truth on a fresh page.
“You got me, Officer. I did it.’’
“I write because I love writing.” – the writer