I need to write. I need to write a story.
A short story, but a story nonetheless.
So I thought stream of consciousness. Just sit down at my keyboard and let the letters flow off my fingertips like they have always been there.
Oh, fingertip. That reminds me. I just dug a bugger of a metal splinter out of my left pointer. Tiny little thing gave me one heck of a pain though and a whole lot of trouble to remove.
Soaked it a little in baking soda, lavender, and warm water. Hoped that would coax it to the surface.
Surface. The surface of the water was still. Blue. Sparkling. Serene. She sat there in her little boat. A dingy I suppose they’re called.
Are dingy (the boat) and dingy (like dirty) spelled the same? Are they kind of like the same word. Do you have a tiny, dirty little boat so we called it a dingy and you were like no way man so we said fine it’s a dingy then? Or maybe I just don’t know how to spell one or both of those words.
Words. Oh yes, words. Those are the things I need to write that story. A story I am trying to get written and submitted before the month has come to an end. It’s five days until that inevitable end.
I have two ideas. Not a single clue where to start for either of them.
What can a girl do? So, she grabs her keyboard. She clickity clickity clackety clacketies all over that keyboard. She words and words and none of them make sense.
But she hopes she’s opening up her mind. She hopes that the muse can hear her cry. Hear her calling for sweet inspiration to visit her. See her trying so hard to find those words that build that story and take pity on this wretched, miserable soul.
Tappety tappety tap tap tap. The clicking and clacking and tappety tap tapping continues. She doesn’t know where it’s going so she lets it lead as she follows it down that winding road.
A road so dark and tunneled by trees you cannot tell the time of day be it high noon or midnight.
Midnight. Mid-night. Mid. Night. Is it really? If the sunrise and sunset are forever moving around. They tick away a minute each day first towards each other closer closer and closer still then away again further and further and further they go.
It’s their yearly dance. They know it well. Are they friend or lover? Or are they foe?
Into the corner I’ve written myself. Ah, but there’s no going back. It’s spontaneous. It’s stream of consciousness. I can’t change that. I must move on. But where do I go after that blunder. I’ve made a mess of it all, I have. I tell you, it’s true.
It’s time to draw this to a close I believe. Time to see what I can do. Time to write that story. At least over there I can use delete. I can hit that backspace button and start again. I can change it. Edit it. Make it shine.
Oh but what should it be? What should I write?
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