The Notebook

Just a short story to draw the eyes.

Writers block. Such a serious ailment for a writer to receive, along the lines of bronchitis for a performer or a broken leg to a sprinter, especially during the last week of a deadline. How can I be almost finished with a story yet, have absolutely no idea about the way I want to conclude it? Coupled along with the long drawn out blaring of the phone and endless voicemails I keep receiving from Michelle, my publicist, wondering whether I was near putting the finishing touches on the story. 

The anxiety tugging on my nerves and the repeated echo of her calls doesn’t nearly help stir the creative juices, although there is a sort of mush swirling within my skull containing thoughts of irritation and uncertainty. I should tell Michelle that I need an extension, but just that simple phrase leads to questioning of my methods, the how and why’s of what I’ve been doing with the allotted time she gave me to start the book and finish. But how can a story about a young runaway refugee in Cuba containing national secrets about Fidel hardly be conquered in a mere 6 months?  D****t, how can you expect me to work within such a boring and hostile area riddled with your very phone calls? As I make a frustrated yet failed attempt at volleying a pillow across the room. Maybe it’s better to just go outside, breath and see if the fresh air can lower the veil blocking my thoughts. Oh wait, I can’t forget my notebook, as I quickly turn back to the TV room and snatch my prized possession off the coffee table.  This notebook, with its peeled and worn cover, awkwardly bent vertebrae and yellowish tinted pages has been with me since my freshman year of college. A tablet of triumphs, containing notes and thoughts from all my stories, to even the depth of my personal feelings. I love this notebook; more than any lover, family member, or closest friend.

 It’s so beautiful outside! The dull spring atmosphere will surely spark something while I begin my daily ritual of strolling down the block and buying my favorite pick-me-up; a sesame seed bagel and small coffee with 2 creams one sugar, from Angelo’s bakery. Something about the loud bustling of people walking down the sidewalk and typical mechanical sounds of city life bring me to nirvana and instantly pick my mood from the depths. Strolling to the cleanest bench at the park downtown is usually the best, so as to cultivate my thoughts. Ah there’s one, I murmured while lightly brushing off what appears to be an already clean bench but still appeasing to my OCD. And there it was. That feeling of inspiration I receive after relaxing outside, coffee in hand, notebook on lap and mind at the ready. Usually I would have continued on with ideas about my story but I figured I’d try something different. I wanted to watch life pass me by. Children rambunctiously tugging on their parents to chase the squirrels, random pigeons as they observe my position on donating parts of my bagel, and the proverbial overweight runner who can only keep up with 5 minutes of exercise.

           

 Sometimes I write brief, grandiose stories about the people who walk by me. The business woman in her stylish red 3 inch heels and short black suit who, as I would like to guess, is going to seduce her boss for a raise by showing him how heavenly her bust can be. Better yet, the awkward passing preteen boy, face brazen with acne, red hair cut into a misshapen fruit bowl, pants flooding the Hoover damn and loaded 9 millimeter in backpack as to spray his hatred on the kids who imprinted his face with bruises and blackened eyes. Of course things like these rarely happen, although the red heels sounds convincing enough but, alas, I have an eye for people whilst my thoughts dictate a story from each of them. Everyone has a story, whether it is thrilling and bold to dull and boorish, yet my imagination dictates the outcome. That’s why I love being a writer.

Few hours pass by before I catch a chill and the sun begins to wane signaling me to leave and walk home. My stomach snarls at me, demanding sustenance while I begin my trek back and of course I cave in to such feelings upon seeing Angelo’s across the street. Suddenly, after briskly walking in ready to indulge myself knowing already what I’m going to order.  Did you hear the news? Says a woman to the cashier as she grabs her order while cutting me off from making mine. Yea, it’s pretty bad. Most of the kids got out but some were left looking like swish cheese. Jesus Christ, I can’t believe that scrawny lookin kid would do somethin like that in class. Wait wait, let me turn the TV on, it should still be on the news. As he flicked on the TV I glanced to see a pimple faced teens picture on the screen .Is that the same kid? I whisper, staring at his unmistakable picture as the female reporter announces:

“13 year old teen Ethan Durra was taken down today by local police after he killed 3 classmates in the middle of a lesson with a 9 millimeter. Although details aren’t clear, teachers report tension between the classmates. This case more than likely involves bullying and a distraught young man with no way out….In other news-"

           

My hands begin to tremble and throat closes up at the lasting words of the reporter. Sir? Can I help you? Sir? I’m deaf to everything as a haze of questions arise in my head. He looks like the kid from the park? I mean, I was just writing in my notebook like I always do; it has to be coincidence right? I always do this, why today of all days is there a coincidence!? The notebook! I exclaimed while ripping through the pages to find my casual entry, hoping it’s some detail I put in there that separates these events. 

The entry is nowhere to be found.  

Author's Note

Had to write a short story for my Fiction Prose class, so I figured, might as well post it here. Let me know what you think.