PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
He sat frowning, frustrated, staring at the small workstation stuck in the corner of the room. It wasn’t like he couldn’t write here, but the lack of space, and freedom, irked his sense of creativity.
Picking up a guitar, he stepped onto the balcony and settled into a chair, strumming softly. Singing softer, words for his ears only.
The sky was bright blue, fluffed with clouds. A breeze nuzzled his hair and, for the first time in days, he was content.
Music rolled off his fingers, words from his tongue. Angels bending down around him, whispering in his ear.