Status: 1/1
Writer
Beginning
He sits down on his bed, chewing teeth marks into a green and red, holiday themed wooden pencil. His dark blue notebook lies beside him on the striped comforters. It's brand new, one subject, one hundred and fifty pages, college-ruled. It only cost three dollars at Walgreens. The pencil is one he's had since high school but it’s freshly sharpened, ready to be put to use except...he doesn’t know where to start.
He stands up, paces around the bedroom a few times. He goes to the window and sits on the sill, gazing out for a hint of inspiration. The sidewalks are clear. The high-pitched shrieks and shrill laughter he usually hears from the neighborhood children is nonexistent. It’s a school day, he remembers. They're in school. It’s too cold for anyone to be outside anyways. Autumn is coming to an end and the thermostat steadily drops each week. He sees frost collecting on the windshield and hood of his mother’s silver 2010 Honda Accord and he wishes he had somewhere to go.
Back to the bed, he stares at the notebook. It's brand new, one subject, one hundred and fifty pages, college-ruled. It only cost three dollars at Walgreens. Its blank pages taunt him. He has the urge to fill them up, with stories of star-crossed lovers, urban heroes with street smarts for armor, tragic beginnings with happy endings. With words and sentences and paragraphs, similes and metaphors and imagery of how it feels to have your heart stomped on even though it’s still beating in your chest, or to hold your first born child and feel their tiny hand curled around your finger. He longs to spill his thoughts onto the pages, his wildest dreams and darkest fantasies, until his wrist can't move another millimeter. Even then, he would learn to work with his left hand because his brain never stops coming up with characters and climaxes, clichés and twists.
Only, when he picks up the pencil, when he opens up the notebook to the first page, he can't produce a single letter. He closes the notebook and lies it down on the bed. It's brand new, one subject, one hundred and fifty pages, college-ruled. It only cost three dollars at Walgreens. He takes a sip from his white and blue, Panthers football mug. The once steaming hot tea is room temperature. Still he empties the cup into his mouth and places it back on the bedside table. He licks residue liquid from his lips, chapped and peeling from a combination of the frigid weather and his own anxiety.
Closing his eyes he takes a deep breath and pulls the notebook onto his lap. He runs his fingers over the smooth cover, over the binding wire, spiraling through a dozen holes. He traces each word and number, all in a bold white font. Finally he opens his eyes and it comes to him. It comes to him!
Writer, he scrawls across the top of the page.
He stands up, paces around the bedroom a few times. He goes to the window and sits on the sill, gazing out for a hint of inspiration. The sidewalks are clear. The high-pitched shrieks and shrill laughter he usually hears from the neighborhood children is nonexistent. It’s a school day, he remembers. They're in school. It’s too cold for anyone to be outside anyways. Autumn is coming to an end and the thermostat steadily drops each week. He sees frost collecting on the windshield and hood of his mother’s silver 2010 Honda Accord and he wishes he had somewhere to go.
Back to the bed, he stares at the notebook. It's brand new, one subject, one hundred and fifty pages, college-ruled. It only cost three dollars at Walgreens. Its blank pages taunt him. He has the urge to fill them up, with stories of star-crossed lovers, urban heroes with street smarts for armor, tragic beginnings with happy endings. With words and sentences and paragraphs, similes and metaphors and imagery of how it feels to have your heart stomped on even though it’s still beating in your chest, or to hold your first born child and feel their tiny hand curled around your finger. He longs to spill his thoughts onto the pages, his wildest dreams and darkest fantasies, until his wrist can't move another millimeter. Even then, he would learn to work with his left hand because his brain never stops coming up with characters and climaxes, clichés and twists.
Only, when he picks up the pencil, when he opens up the notebook to the first page, he can't produce a single letter. He closes the notebook and lies it down on the bed. It's brand new, one subject, one hundred and fifty pages, college-ruled. It only cost three dollars at Walgreens. He takes a sip from his white and blue, Panthers football mug. The once steaming hot tea is room temperature. Still he empties the cup into his mouth and places it back on the bedside table. He licks residue liquid from his lips, chapped and peeling from a combination of the frigid weather and his own anxiety.
Closing his eyes he takes a deep breath and pulls the notebook onto his lap. He runs his fingers over the smooth cover, over the binding wire, spiraling through a dozen holes. He traces each word and number, all in a bold white font. Finally he opens his eyes and it comes to him. It comes to him!
Writer, he scrawls across the top of the page.
♠ ♠ ♠
I don't know you guys, I like this.