It had been fourteen days five months and one year since her last Ficlatté. She'd nearly forgotten how to write one. Most pieces she had been writing were Tweet length, capturing and enrapturing a new audience. Then there was the collection of short stori…

He reluctantly tapped at the keyboard with his fingers. They had taught him in school how to type properly, but he wasn't sure if he was executing it the way his teachers in 6th grade had intended. It did, however, get the job done.

He didn't want to del…

"Why don't you write about me?" she exclaimed as if it were that easy.

It wasn't. She was the personification of the proverbial "one that got away" and his heart still ached for her even after all the years that had passed since that night in the park on…

He lifted his head, unscrewed the top of the whiskey and took a big swig of it, holding it in his mouth for a moment to savor the taste that only good whiskey can provide before swallowing it in an attempt to make the girl disappear.

"I'm not going anywh…

"You drink too much" she said to him. "Or not enough. I guess it depends on what you are going for."

"I'm going for the 'forgetting my misery'" he said with a sigh.

"What you need to do is write more. Especially if you are drinking. All the great writin…

The blank page stares at me. I have to write something. Anything! I promised myself that I would do it. Maybe someday the things I write will be coherent again. For now, they're just something to make sure I hold myself to my promise to write again.

…

Detective Hawk reached a gloved hand to the light switch. In the moment before the room was bathed in light, she braced herself for a scene of unknowable atrocity. It was not difficult to kill a muse, they are quite delicate, but at times the results can …

It feels like hatching.

Closing my eyes and letting the words flow from my fingers like they once did is terrifying, but some part of me is starving and certain that the alternative means death. My creativity is at stake.

I'm answering the call of a 9-…

He gazes up from his desk

At the pencil-slanted rain

A myriad little stories

Creeping down his window pane

As his hand fondles his pen

Potential from within

He wonders what to write

What they will think of him

Too many to catch

With his flimsy net

Ideas w…