Me, a Writer?

The idea merits attention, making money as an author the family says, “It’s a nice hobby, honey but maybe you should get a business degree or computers.” Anger and disappointment for not receiving the encouragement the child sits at a pink and white desk pencil and paper in hand, free writing is how the process evolved. During grade school the instructor discussed brain clusters, now the scribe draws circles around a bigger circle further inviting the ‘just for fun’ mentality. Life happens, children grow, teenagers rebel and the dream is placed on a shelf in a glass box waiting, holding onto the hope that desire will rekindle the flame.
Blogs are invented somewhere around the birth of Myspace, a rolling diary of the day’s events. The internet provides people with an outlet to stream consciousness onto a screen, secretly hoping someone, anyone reads and understands the desperate plight of friendships, dramatized relationships and political viewpoints. Music is shared, thoughts are provoked and a community of people are suddenly heard, enter our faithless heroine watching the world write. Deep in the attic of the mind is a shelf, where a glass box sits. Poking through broken toys, unopened chests and cobwebs the woman finds a desk set near the corner window. The brown covering is an inch thick, dust from ten years of non-use. She pulls out the wooden chair, its white paint chipped along the back edge. Hands move along its pocked surface, familiar dips and bumps excite the tips of worn fingers. Countless times leaning back on two legs, crying against the pain, and imagining magnificent tales of heroes she spent in this chair.
Sitting down, she defines the edges of the seat; unfamiliar to an older, wider bottom the chair gently encompasses the body. Lovingly the wood curves, she leans back and remembers the evolution of her life. Caked in dust and chains of abandonment, the leather bound book appears on the surface of the desk. Carefully she leans forward and peels back the pages. Memories written in child’s script dictate her desire, dreams and hopes. As the pages fold back clouds of brown billow up, tiny clouds move across the barren landscape carrying the bonds of forgetting, people pleasing and fear. Tears spill down her face washing away the loss of the only friend she knew and eventually the last page turned over. The glass box sits above her head quietly glowing first red, a deep crimson. Passion, anger echoed through the haunted words. Soft green emanated from its center as she found the broken knobbed drawer just below the surface. First the drawer appeared stuck, refusing to open as she pulled, thinking it stuck she lowered her hands.
Pages, empty, blank; she stared at the remainder of the journal, edges worn from being held tightly against her young chest. There is more to write? The white glows softly, as the glass box radiates a deep blue, emotions and creativity spark her hand tingles warmly. A flash appears before her mind; small hands pick one side up first, the broken side then gently pull to the right. She smiles and reaches for the drawer, it opens easily and there lies her favorite swords. Colorful, big erasers, oversized and dark, color pencils and a black case oddly placed near the back of the slim drawer. Her fingers caress each tool remembering the fond words they wrote, but the case she did not have a memory. Pulling it out of the back, behind the collection of rocks and string, she places it on the desk. The glass box, glows white, purity and god’s light, a small cocoon is seen through its transparency. Tentatively her fingers touch the velvet top, a soft creak as she opens it, her eyes widen in surprise. Rays of light stream through the window, once clouded with dirt now Windex clean, golden they illuminate the velvet box’s contents. She lets out a breath, only just realizing she stopped breathing. It is beautiful, streamlined in design, the smooth clip polished to a high shine, such a sword only a master blacksmith can forge.
Perfectly, it fit perfectly as she slid the hilt between her thumb and first finger. Arching the thumb backwards the metal click sounded just as the knight draws his sword from the sheath. The glow of the glass box warms with yellow, then pulsing orange as the cocoon cracks its hard shell. Pulling the journal closer, rotating it slightly to the left the silver sword/pen drew its first blood as she formulated a sentence…

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