What to write, what to write. Willam tapped his blue pen against the hard table.
"AAAAAAAAAAAARGH" The sound rang through the quiet San Diego night. He tapped his foot against the wood of the floor, making a tap...tap...tap. Then he got an idea. A brilliant idea. He started to write, scribbled down the words that made up his idea. The only thing that could be heard in the still room was William's breathing and the scratch of pen on paper. 11:00....12:00....1:00....2:00.... At 6:00 in the morning, William paused for a breakfast of bacon, eggs and milk. Then he went back to writing. Every once and a while he would cross things out or add new things; sometimes both. The sounds of honking horns and people shouting to each other drifted through the open glass window. 10:00....11:00.... and still he wrote. Writing, writing, writing, there wasn't enough of it for William. Three days, William worked on his novel, pausing only to go to the restroom and to eat. At 12:00 in the night William leaned back. He had 500 pages in the crumpled stack. Next, he sat down at his tablet computer and started to type his novel. He typed for a day and a half, making changes here and there. When he was done, he printed it out double spaced, and put it on his bedside table. He had not slept for five days and he was exhausted. He collapsed on the bed, pausing only to grab his sweaty shirt and put in in the empty hamper. He fell into a deep, endless sleep. There were no dreams in this sleep, though he usually had at least one. He awoke, two days later, and rolled out of his crumpled bed sheets. He collided with the light brown, varnished floorboards, and, groaning, got to his feet. He grabbed a new shirt out of a drawer and pulled it roughly over his head. He staggered out into the dark hall, and flicked on a light. He slowly descended down the steep stairs, holding onto the sticky rail for support. When he reached the landing he looked to the right, as he always did when he got to this level. What he saw was a magnificent, beautiful painting of a coral reef. The reds and blues were bright, but not blinding. There were purples and greens, all the colors that he could think of and more. A fish swam by above the coral. The fish's fins were a beautiful green, and it's tail was a small amount lighter. It's black eyes stared slightly down, as if looking for the bright red, smaller fish hiding behind a brown piece of coral. The water seemed to be made of silk, and William wanted to touch it. But he didn't want to damage the beautiful painting. Not at all. He walked up on the fuzzy patterned rug to the painting. As he stared at the plaque engraved with the words: BY CASSANDRA PAMTIN FOR WILLIAM PAMTIN, his eyes filled with tears.
"AAAAAAAAAAAARGH" The sound rang through the quiet San Diego night. He tapped his foot against the wood of the floor, making a tap...tap...tap. Then he got an idea. A brilliant idea. He started to write, scribbled down the words that made up his idea. The only thing that could be heard in the still room was William's breathing and the scratch of pen on paper. 11:00....12:00....1:00....2:00.... At 6:00 in the morning, William paused for a breakfast of bacon, eggs and milk. Then he went back to writing. Every once and a while he would cross things out or add new things; sometimes both. The sounds of honking horns and people shouting to each other drifted through the open glass window. 10:00....11:00.... and still he wrote. Writing, writing, writing, there wasn't enough of it for William. Three days, William worked on his novel, pausing only to go to the restroom and to eat. At 12:00 in the night William leaned back. He had 500 pages in the crumpled stack. Next, he sat down at his tablet computer and started to type his novel. He typed for a day and a half, making changes here and there. When he was done, he printed it out double spaced, and put it on his bedside table. He had not slept for five days and he was exhausted. He collapsed on the bed, pausing only to grab his sweaty shirt and put in in the empty hamper. He fell into a deep, endless sleep. There were no dreams in this sleep, though he usually had at least one. He awoke, two days later, and rolled out of his crumpled bed sheets. He collided with the light brown, varnished floorboards, and, groaning, got to his feet. He grabbed a new shirt out of a drawer and pulled it roughly over his head. He staggered out into the dark hall, and flicked on a light. He slowly descended down the steep stairs, holding onto the sticky rail for support. When he reached the landing he looked to the right, as he always did when he got to this level. What he saw was a magnificent, beautiful painting of a coral reef. The reds and blues were bright, but not blinding. There were purples and greens, all the colors that he could think of and more. A fish swam by above the coral. The fish's fins were a beautiful green, and it's tail was a small amount lighter. It's black eyes stared slightly down, as if looking for the bright red, smaller fish hiding behind a brown piece of coral. The water seemed to be made of silk, and William wanted to touch it. But he didn't want to damage the beautiful painting. Not at all. He walked up on the fuzzy patterned rug to the painting. As he stared at the plaque engraved with the words: BY CASSANDRA PAMTIN FOR WILLIAM PAMTIN, his eyes filled with tears.
