A sunday afternoon, January 1st

I wouldn't call these stories, I'm not sure what I'd call them. I have a book called the writers book of days, every day it gives you a different topic. So here is the first of many short pieces.

Glassy eyes glued to a barrage of images, pancaked in my bed I shift uncomfortably, a parade of thoughts, things undone wafting endlessly over me. A failed attempt to rise, to not procrastinate. Blankets pulled up higher, volume turned up. Thoughts drowned, glassy eyed I stare.

Author's Note

Each of these pieces are un edited and raw, I write the first thing that comes to mind, I write to write, to write and write.