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_.