What cannot be done.

WHAT CAN NOT BE DONE.

Michael sat at his desk, hands stretched over the keyboard of his laptop. This was new to him, writing a story of this kind was strange. He was use to long epics detailing many characters and massive battles. There was no way he could do that in under 2,000 words.

He dropped his hands in his lap and growled his frustration. Why bother? he thought. It won’t matter, I won’t succeed. What hope do I have of winning, compared to the people who write these things for fun, or worse, for a living.

The blank white screen called out to him. Something could go there, but what?

“Oh, sure,” Michael muttered to the empty room. “I can never stop thinking about my stories, never stop putting pieces together and forming new threads, but the minute I’m asked to write my mind goes blank!”

He smacked his soda can, thinking it was empty. The can spiraled away sending a spinning arc of bubbly brown liquid through the air and clattered against the wall.

It was ten minutes before he returned to his desk, the wall and carpet now dry. He slumped into his chair, and found it was fun to spin the chair. He spun and spun, and grew dizzy. He laughed like a madman as the walls whirled 'round and 'round. Eventually he stopped, and when his wits had returned, and the room stopped spinning like the deck of a ship, he saw the clock on his desk.

1:04

Well, he thought, that was a waste of a half hour.

He spun to face his computer; maybe somebody had sent him a message. Nope. Well, maybe somebody will in a
minute. Best to wait ‘til then before I get started.

He waited, and soon his wandering eyes caught his clock.

1:49

“Enough waiting!” he growled at himself. Hands coming to keyboard and mouse, he checked online for his task, just to be sure. “Writing prompt, yada yada yada. ‘You must do the thing you think you cannot do.’” Michael sighed. “Real helpful.”

Then he perked up in his chair, and opened a writing file. Inspiration struck his brain like lightning, or something. He put fingers to keyboard, moving non-stop in a fluid motion. Who cared how many typos he made! He could edit later. For now, he would churn the story out.


'Devin sat at his desk, hands stretched over the keyboard of his laptop.'

“Yes,” Michael said. “That’ll work.”
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399 words.