Up and down arrow keys to scroll, space key to go back. I just wrote these in like 10 minutes, plus some editing so please don't judge me by it, I've written better.
Here are the stories again: A Blank Page My pencil pushes across my page, leaving behind it a long, gritty line. I wipe my hands over it- bad habit- and it smudges. Great. No erasing now. The page is no less intimidating, and I realize my hands are shaking. I place the pencil on my desk, and shake my hands quickly and hard, trying to stop their quivering. Picking up the pencil, I try again. One letter is all that gets out onto the page before I crumple it up and throw it into the trash. The floor around the shiny metal can is littered with other torn up pages, from other failed attempts. So far, I haven’t gotten a single one right. Maybe, I tell myself, maybe paper isn’t the right surface. Try your computer instead. So I open it up, log in, and wait for it to load. The clock ticks loudly while I sit there, reminding me of how much time I’ve spent trying and failing, trying and failing again. I shake my head, to get rid of these thoughts, and place my fingers on the keyboard. It’s another blank page. Of course. How could I forget? My hands are shaking again. I try to ignore it, but now my entire body is trembling. My breaths come in short, sharp gasps. My heart pounds against my rib cage, like it wants to force its way out. The clock ticks louder and louder as each second passes. Down on the floor, the trash can gleams like a beacon, and my eyes are automatically drawn to it. The paper is bright against the dark wooden floor. What have I done wrong? Obviously something. “I’m sorry-” I stammer, closing the lid of my computer, and shoving it away. Who am I kidding? I can’t write. I’ll never be a writer. My no. 2 pencil is bright, like a warning sign. I need to make a choice. But which way will I take? Hesitantly, I pick up my pencil, holding it like it’s a bag filled with toxic waste. Slowly, slowly, I bring it closer to me. I feel the familiar buzz, the electric tingles beneath my skin, racing to my fingertips. The promise of a story waits within the graphite tip. My eyes harden. I hold the pencil in both fingers. I close my eyes, bending it as hard as possible- SNAP. My eyes open to a blurry view of my desk. Quickly, I wipe the tears away. No sense in crying about it now, what’s done is done. The pencil is broken, two halves clutched in my hands. A sprinkle of sawdust and graphite lies on the desk. I wipe it into my hand, toss the halves into the trash. A tidal wave of anger surges within me, and I grab the few pieces of paper that are left, rip them up, throw them towards the garbage. They litter the floor like confetti. Exhausted, although I do not know why, I lay my head down on my desk. My eyes close, and I finally succumb to the tears that waited behind doors I had tried so hard to keep shut. My decision has been made. This is the end. I fall asleep to the silent sound of my tears. Farewell, Sunlight Oh look. Once again, the sunlight streams through the windows, hitting the floor in the shape of a perfect square. I cannot see it fully, though, as I am stuffed in a box in a closet. The only reason I am not enshrouded in complete darkness is for the hole in the side that I am positioned to look through. Oh! And there she is, hair done up in a complicated bun. She's looking at her bed now and oh! is she coming over here? Yes, she is! She's opening the closet door, shoving books and old clothes to the side. The gold ringlets of her pink-tinted hair are brushing my face. From my vantage point, I can see her face is contorted in an upset expression. What is it she’s looking for? Wait! She’s looking towards me, reaching down towards the box I lie in. Could it be that I am to once again take my place upon her bed? Sit up tall against her starch white pillows? Her hands are softly picking me up, allowing me to notice everything that’s changed about her. Something shiny and glossy gives her lips a pinkish color, there’s a blue pastel color painted on above her eyes. The glasses that used to perch upon the bridge of her nose are gone, with something else there making her eyes a green color instead of brown. She’s looking at me, a slight smile upon her lips. Dare I hope it to be true? Will she take me away from this dusty, lonely closet and bring me back to giggles and tight hugs and light? But her face contorts into a hideous grimace and wait! She’s letting those oddly colored green eyes roll back into her head and wait! She’s making a disgusted noise from the back of her throat and wait! She’s shoving me back down into the box, forcing my head into a pile of other forgotten companions, who used to have hope like I did. The closet door is closing, I can hear it creak and groan, like it knows the fate that is to befall me -- that is to befall all of us here. Her footsteps grow fainter as she walks away, her voice is sharp as she laughs to some friend on the phone. It is musty and smells of old clothes and mothballs in here, the closet door slides into place with a resounding click. Farewell, sunlight.
