“I haven’t written in some time,” the man said. He overlooked a pond dotted with lily pads. Between his fingers rested a cigarette, its smoke curling before his face. Dark blotches hung beneath his eyes.

He turned to another man seated on a porch chair. This man clutched a mug of coffee, his hair disheveled and a dark red apron tied loosely around his waist. With one final yawn, he stood and joined his friend at the fence.

“It’s a beautiful morning,” the aproned man remarked. “The geese should be flying in soon to get some bread from the maid.” He took a sip from his cup, then frowned. “Coffee’s almost cold. I should make another cup. Do you want one?”

The man with the cigarette shook his head. He took one last drag before wanting to flick the stub toward an ashtray on the table. A cough escaped him as he decided against it and walked over, dropping the cigarette into the jade stone tray.

“You don’t seem to care about my writer’s block,” he muttered, just as the faint sound of geese approached from the south.

“My dear Benjamin,” the other man replied, “you’re here in my home to write. I’m not the published—and failed—author. You are. Now, about that coffee?” He grinned at the husk of a man before him.

Benjamin craved another hit of nicotine before sitting down to watch the sunrise. “Fuck you, Clint,” he whispered.

Clint adjusted his apron, then burst into laughter. He untied the apron, revealing a speedo underneath, and tossed it onto the chair. “Fuck me, you say? I suppose there’s some truth in your hostility, though it’s not a notion I’m particularly interested in. I had Patricia over last night—did I tell you?” He glanced back, curious about Benjamin’s reaction.

Benjamin stared at him. “I don’t know what to write, Clint. I wrote a book, published it, and no one wanted to read it… except an eccentric billionaire who seems to enjoy tormenting me for not having a girlfriend.” He rose from the chair and joined Clint at the fence. “Why did you invite me here, to your mansion, with this all-expenses-paid vacation… to write?”

Benjamin’s eyes reflected the red twilight of the morning and the geese gliding  over the water.

“It’s quite simple, Benjamin,” Clint replied. “I’m bored. Your book gave me some enjoyment. I thought I’d be lucky enough to read your next one before the rest of the world. I’m giving you the royal treatment, after all. So, what’s causing this writer’s block?” He tossed the remnants of his coffee into the pond, set the empty mug on the table, and dove into the water.

“The loud giggles at night aren’t helping,” Benjamin said dryly.

Clint swam after the geese. The billionaire would want an answer when he climbed out. Benjamin scratched at a splinter on the fence—the only one on the entire deck. He was certain that if he pointed it out, Clint would have the deck replaced within the hour and painted by afternoon with some lavish imported paint. By the next morning, Benjamin would be back, searching for another splinter to pick at.

The geese cried out as Clint swam toward them. Benjamin tried to make sense of his despair. When he struggled to make sense of life, he had no problem escaping into the worlds he conjured. Yet here, he had no words. He tugged at the splinter and winced as it broke his skin.

“Shit,” he muttered, pulling his finger away and sucking at the wound. He could feel the splinter with his tongue. He brought it into the faint orange light and examined it. Carefully, he pinched it between his fingernails—which needed trimming—and pulled it free. Blood welled up and dripped onto the forest-green paint of the deck. He went back to sucking his finger.

“You okay there, Ben?” Clint asked as he climbed onto the deck, dripping wet. He glanced at Benjamin sucking his finger, then down at the blood on the floor. “A splinter? That’s bad luck. I’ll have the groundsman fix the deck. Any specific colour you’d like it to be?”

“Blood red,” Benjamin whispered under breath, removing his finger and shaking it in the air.

Clint nodded and grabbed his apron from the chair. “Your answer, Ben? Why aren’t you writing?” He sat back down and waited.

“I think it’s a matter of who’s listening,” Benjamin began.

“Or reading,” Clint interrupted.

“Yes. Would my writing mean anything to the world? If I write for myself, I might as well be a madman. If I write for an audience, I’m caged into serving them a story they might like. I think… my words stopped coming once I realised I’m no longer writing for myself.” The author sat down and stared at the billionaire across from him.

Clint paused, his empty mug in hand, and studied Benjamin. “I never thought—that is to say—” He glanced into the mug and set it down. “Do you want some coffee, Benjamin?”

The author nodded as Clint stood and headed back toward the mansion. “Blood red, you say?” he called over his shoulder before disappearing inside.

Benjamin sat in the chair, observing the sunrise. He could describe it in a million beautiful ways—an apricot born on the horizon, paint spilled across the sky—but he knew those words were for himself. He captured the moment, the kind that might sell a thousand copies, and tucked it into a poem within his mind, hoping that in the afterlife, he could revisit this page. He wondered if he would start writing today. The geese cried out and flew off again. His finger throbbed, and he reached for another cigarette. Tomorrow was another day.