He walked the long path every afternoon, hoping the fog would finally give him something — an image, a phrase, a spark. Anything. The trees rose like dark parentheses around him, holding in the silence. His notebook stayed tucked under his arm, accusing him with its blank, uncreased pages. He was a wannabe writer, and lately even the word wannabe felt generous.
The fog thickened as he moved, swallowing the world in soft gray. It reminded him too much of his own mind. How dense, unmoving, impossible to navigate it felt to him. Every idea he chased dissolved the moment he reached for it. Characters blurred. Plots evaporated. Sentences collapsed into mist. He felt as if he were walking inside his own writer’s block, trapped in a weather system he couldn’t outthink.
He tried tricks, like prompts, rituals, coffee strong enough to wake the dead. But nothing cut through. The fog stayed. The silence stayed. The blank page stayed.
Yet today, something tugged at him. A faint shimmer in the distance, like a lantern behind the haze. He followed it, heart thudding, unsure whether it was real or just another imagined breakthrough that would vanish when he blinked.
But it didn’t vanish. It sharpened.
A figure emerged. It reminded him of himself, or someone like him. The figure was walking toward him with purpose, not hesitation. The figure carried a small flame cupped in both hands, its glow slicing through the mist.
As they passed each other, the flame leapt — quick, bright, alive — and landed in his chest.
He stopped. Opened his notebook.
And for the first time in months, the fog thinned.
Written for Christine Bialczak’s Simply 6 Minutes prompt. The photo is unattributed.
And even though this was not written as a Stream of Consciousness post, it does contain the word “spark,” which is what Linda G. Hill’s SoCS prompt word was yesterday. And as long as I am breaking the rules, this did take me more than six minutes to write.
Facts, Fictions & Fantasies 