Here’s my contribution to WordPress’ Weekly Challenge. It’s a blurb on my struggles with procrastination that I wrote a few months ago. I titled it “Shift-Command-Q”. (Yes, I’m a Mac owner.)


He trudged into her room as if familiar with the place. Smiling amicably, the glint of wily mastery in his dingy olive-tinted pupils was all she noticed. Tension seized her extremities and drastically altered the steady rhythm of respiration. She knew she had to talk. Sent a couple months ago, a daintily transcribed, wax-sealed letter of too-tough-to-tear two-ply cardstock was the last uncharacteristically harsh word she wished to throw his way. Though a Facebook message would have been sufficient, the physical presence of her silver-inked words was more necessary. Especially in his case. Only when holding something could he begin to understand it.

Years of emotional dominance had gradually converted her literary reads toward self-help. Consequently tracking progress of incremental happiness and personal liberation via annoyingly bubbly blog-posts, she began to dictate the current scenario in a neatly packaged WordPress-template. Her virtual followers’ comments of disappointment invaded her thoughts while she timidly fixated on his established form. She clasped her clammy hands together, attempting to allay their frightening tremors. This faint manifestation of sweat indicated the literature had wasted her time. The new post definitely should be typed in the whimsical Comic Sans MS font, alleviating the topic of its weight. Reverting to subordination, she kept silent as he flopped those pathetic excuses of frazzled footwear across her freshly mopped tile. Yes, a simple sea-foam green background with a traditional black size-12 font would suffice. Fear merged into an inexhaustible resentment. Purposefully plopping on the bed, he continued to stare at her as she writhed with a palatable vexation. The internal discontent mixed with an authentic abhorrence for everything he embodied. Focus. Exactly, no, a photo attachment is not necessary. Even on a happy day (a day blogged about, of course), vocal articulation was never instinctive for her. Aware of this, he knew just how to manipulate. The blog’s commentators would eventually sympathize, right? She began to reel over a lengthy selection of emergency quotes to bring her reality back, but as he patted the empty space at his side with a muddied, beach-bronzed hand, she promptly accepted. He held her. Consoled, he –cunctation– seduced her once more. She closed her eyes…


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