The Rusty Nail


Writers are a lot like fishermen. Lobster fishermen, to be exact.

We litter the seabed with fetchingly colored traps of every shape and size hoping a stray crustacean moseys into our grasps.

Yesterday, a Homarus gammarus finally wandered my way.

I wrestled the 500 word clawing beast to the ground and hauled his little a** right into The Clockwise Heart.

I celebrated the end of my dry spell by downing a Rusty Nail (that’s Scotch Whiskey and Drambuie, mates) and a plate of kippers.


Until tomorrow…


Post-note: “Not really” to the kippers. “No comment” on the Rusty Nail.


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