Short Stories for the Artistic Mind

Stories

I look left, I look right. There are a millionstories, a million scenarios in my head. I need to write them down. I look down; level 1389 on my phone's ball sort puzzle. Royal blue, lime green, red, brown, purple, baby blue, pink, forest green, orange, yellow, grey; balls and balls, my brain trying to decode how to solve the puzzles, even in my sleep. A dream, an idea. I wake up, feeling heavy still with sleep. A slow breakfast, to try and enjoy my time. Then, I walk back and sit down, ready to type. "You Tube": skits and "10 things you did not know about..."; "Facebook": memes, memes, memes, news, videos, pics, memes, news; bad news: killings, police brutality. I put my phone down. I need to write. I look left, I look right. Ideas bubble up, well developed in the time I let them rest in my mind, imagination having done what it does best. I am ready to write. I close my eyes. Time for sleep. There are a million stories, and a million more come to life. I wake up, my head overflowing with ideas. My stories will have at least 5 more chapters by the end of the week; I stand up and walk to the living room, Facebook in hand, ready to scroll Netflix for minutes on end, my list filled with shows and movies, until I watch Shrek 2 for the 100th time at the very least. I want to write. I sit down and open up a file, hands hovering the keyboard. A blank. Words, what are words? These characters, who are they? What...? I open up my phone; time for another app game. Days and days of the same routine, on and off twice a week for online classes to learn a third language. A meager advancement of one's knowledge and skills. The ideas dance around in my head, trying to burst out, but now, it is time for bed again. Days and days of scenes and small details that could change everything, that could bring life back into these characters, that could give me back the joy and passion of writing, my favourite hobby, despite recent events. I sit down; ball sort puzzle, snacks. My homework is done; my room is so clean I can see more floor than stuff now. I have done... everything... but write. I wake up. End of the month; time to pay the bills. I am hungry. I am bored.

I sit down, then open a file. I close it back, and lie on the bed. The ideas barely spiral around anymore, tired; too tired to maintain existence. They are slipping away. Too hot, the summer heat is intense. Time for a shower. Then, a spark. The spark. I open a file, then start to write. This is what I needed; this is the trigger for my inspiration. I can do it. My hands hover the keys and find their way to the words that start to slip onto the digital sheet in front of me. I look left, I look right. There are a million stories, a million scenarios in my head. I need to write them down. I look down, then back up to my screen. Time to write, based on the Procrastination Chronicles of the recent days, the story of my stories.