Having not written anything for a week, the writer forgot how to do it. He picked up a baguette and tried scribbling in a notebook. Nothing. He rubbed a squirrel on a Post-it note. Nothing. He delicately peeled off his forehead, pierced a hole in his skull and let blood and bits of brain and his inner most innards drown his keyboard. Bestseller.

© Carl Burkitt 2018