I laid my head upon the Writers’ Block as the executioner sharpened his axe. He lifted his cowl and stared. “I know you,” he said. “You wrote the one about the king and his dragon mistress.”
“That was a good one. No sequel, though?”
“I can’t seem to do it anymore,” I said. “The war, you know. My head’s just not in it. It’s been two years since I’ve had an idea.”
The executioner laughed. “Writ says one year. You’re free to go.”
I lifted my head from the block, near-death invigorating my mind.
“I’ve just had an idea,” I said. “The block is over!”
The executioner shook his head and lowered his cowl. “Shame.”
Addison Smith has blood made of cold brew and flesh made of chocolate. He spends most of his time writing about fish, birds, and cybernetics, often in combination. His fiction has appeared in Fantasy Magazine, Fireside Magazine, and Daily Science Fiction, among others. You can find him on Twitter @AddisonCSmith.
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