The Perils of Spring

The pen sped towards the notebook page, struck the paper with a dull “borp” sound and bounced back into Aaron’s hand. Over and over his hand – seemingly on its own – tossed the pen at the page keeping up the borping metronome.

Aaron sat at a table in his local coffee shop staring out the window. I should be writing, he scolded himself. But it’s the first warm day of spring.

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