Category : Stories

Sub Category : YoungAdult

   What is it about the sound of a type writer that draws all of my energy into pressing down? Those simple clicks shiver my spine; I can't seem to want to stop. I guess that is what determined my fate. I can't seem to put it into words without teacher's faces scrunch up in confusion. Honestly it never gets old. Some look at me; carryings unknown words to pitch to my ears. 

   My parents know less. They never seem to get me since I turned more to my teen years. Every birthdays and holidays seem to get more and more cringer as my father swears to know me more than myself. My mother just gave up trying. Clothes and more ink is a safe zone for the two. A habit of walking in, seeing the two laid on our dinner table, and looking around before taking my emotionless gifts to my cold room is now common. I give it life with the warmth of my skin and the flicker of light. My room is small but I prefer the word comfy. I sit at my desk more than my bed. I shove another ink cartridge in a pile of others, empty or not. Rest my head by closing my eyes. I make my own music with finger tips. I melt into my mind. A warmer room, brighter windows, less dead tissue over my skin, I feel whole. I write another story about stars.