I Can’t Find The right Word’s
As I entered, the dim light and comforting hum of the old house settled around me, a sense of familiarity overwhelming me—I think I was back. The closet, which I had previously entered and nearly drowned in, miraculously restored itself back to its normal state; the lingering dampness and the chill air were gone. Dry and neatly arranged, the clothes hung on the rack, their textures smooth and fresh.
With a sigh, I turned back through the door I’d just passed, the worn wood felt icy beneath my fingers as I tugged the knob.
Heart pounding, sweat beaded on my brow as I nervously turned the knob, expecting the unexpected; to my surprise, I was back home. Stepping from the darkness of the closet, the familiar warmth and textures of my bedroom enveloped me. Scanning the familiar bedroom—the bed, dresser, desk, computer, and cream walls — everything was still here. My eyes settled on the window as my pace quickened. The air hung still and quiet. Outside, the glass frame showed the normalcy of the world again… I was back. The sharp sting of my slap echoed the turmoil in my mind as I looked down at the scattered paper scraps—a physical confirmation of this strange reality. My cheek burned, a testament to the pain, but I still wondered if it truly was real.
Slap sound
My chest finally unclenched only after what felt like an eternity of suffocating dread. The wall was cold against my back as I slid down and sat there, replaying the events in my mind. A glance at the clock showed only an hour or two had passed, but the stark, empty computer screen seemed to stretch the time infinitely.
In all honesty, I couldn’t explain what happened; it felt like a fever dream, a hazy blur of exhaustion and overwork as I strained to find the right story. It felt impossibly real; the places, the people, the boy—all imbued with such palpable authenticity, defying any rational explanation.
Guess trying to make sense of it won’t lead me anywhere. The best thing to do now is to clean up this novel. Sweeping up the shredded paper with a dustpan and broom was a real chore; the small pieces kept scattering. I cursed myself softly, the initial sense of release replaced by the grim reality of the colossal mess I had made. The weight of my actions pressed down on me while cleaning up the aftermath of my childish tantrum. It took me 30 minutes to clear the floor of visible papers, a slow process of gathering scattered sheets. I tossed the crumpled paper near the overflowing trash bin beside my desk, then noticed something on my cluttered computer desk—a notebook, eerily similar to the one the boy had been holding.
It was bizarre finding the notebook on my desk; I distinctly recalled writing in it as a child, but why here? My parents should have locked it in a box at their house, tucked deep in a closet. I opened the notebook, its worn pages whispering stories, and a warm, small smile bloomed on my face. What was it doing here? The preceding short stories used titles derived from movies like Star Wars and The Matrix to heighten their effect. Stories that I’ve read through more than I can count. Tales that captivated a child’s vivid imagination, an imagination that served as a powerful aid. It helped him escape the emptiness he felt, a void created by the absence of friends and the constant busyness of his family.
I discovered a newfound joy in writing thanks to this exercise; it was the perfect way to improve my craft and have fun at the same time. Even at this early stage, the stories were unfolding for me alone, a private world built around my family and pet. I forgot the unadulterated happiness that flooded my face as I finished another story, another exhilarating escapade in this superhero series. The older you get, the more you forget: simple things like regular meals, the balance between work and life, how stress from overworking can cause writer’s block, and the love you once poured into your writing.
I felt a renewed sense of excitement, ready to embrace the challenge of writing another book, unconcerned with whether it would outshine the first or fail; a part of my audience would understand if I created something I truly loved. My fingers tingled with childish excitement as I reached for the chair, a giddy feeling bubbling in my chest. I took a large, deep breath of the crisp morning air and sat down in the worn wooden chair. The desk under the computer was warm, a comforting sensation as I typed away on the keyboard. The words were buzzing through my head. It felt like I was at peace. Unsure of what to do, my hand hovered over the letter T; a sudden, sharp knock from the living room startled me. Utterly baffled; I hadn’t expected seeing family or my agent. As the day knelt down, the clock spewed 5 pm from the bottom right corner of the computer screen.
Keyboard sounds
Knocking sounds
I shot up, my senses heightened, and ran towards the door; the first knock felt like a trick of the mind, but a second, more forceful one, confirmed it wasn’t. My head throbbed, a dull ache that mirrored the pounding of my heart. Had I escaped?
Heart beat sound
I peeled open the door; the hinges groaning softly, and saw a somewhat familiar face—a middle-aged man with a thick, grey beard and wire-rimmed glasses. My neighbor, “Hi Jake…I wasn’t interrupting something, was I?”
“No…no it’s fine. How can I help you?”
“Forgot that the old printer was out of paper. Before I left for the market, I remembered that a best seller was living next to me.(Laughing) Don't worry, I still keep that between us. So I figured that you might have extra, being a writer and all(Laughing).”
“Of course… I just got some. Come on in Jeff.”
“Don’t mind if I do. You sure you're okay? Those bags under your eyes suggest otherwise, hahaha.”
“Yeah, just working on my next project.”
A soft chuckle escaped my lips as I laughed along with him. The neighbors, a friendly couple hitting close to there sixties, always greeted me with a smile; I wasn’t sure if they had children, but they had strong paternal energy between them. I knew Jeff was a community college professor and his wife Jenny was a math teacher for grade schoolers but saw no kids whatsoever at there house. They invited me over when I first moved in; I was young and alone, and their home felt comforting, a welcome change from my desolate home. Being friendly and social, my hosts invited me to a barbecue, and when the conversation turned to occupations, I impulsively announced my profession as an author. They weren’t too familiar with my genre of writing but still bought the book, anyway. But even after that, they weren’t really nosy about it. Since their requests were always small, I happily obliged each time they needed a few things.
I offered for him to sit on the couch while I checked my office for any extra sheets of paper. He nodded politely, a warm smile playing on his lips beneath his grey beard, his circular glasses magnifying his gaze as he surveyed the bookshelves. After a brief two-to-three-minute absence to collect a stack of sheets, I returned to the living room, only to find it empty.
Odd, “Um I got the papers, you still here.!”
……..
“Yes, your book collection is quite extensive. I was just curious if there were any other shelves…thank you for the paper though.”
I found it strange; his approach seemed to originate from the direction of my room, even if he was following through to the bookshelves it would lead closer to the kitchen, although their locations were actually on opposite sides of the house. The discrepancy was unsettling.
“No problem. Do you need anything else?”
“Oh no, young man, this is already an enormous help. Thank you.”
My neighbor, in his worn leather brown dress shoes, vanished through the door, the scuff of his shoes echoing on the pavement. Clutching his left side, his hand trembled against the worn, brown fabric of his jacket. Leaving with the same smile he came in with.
After locking the door, I scanned the living room; the silence amplifying the stillness, finding nothing amiss; the kitchen, too, was undisturbed, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator.
But after that fever dream, the words flowed freely, banishing my writer’s block, and I quickly finished the second draft. Nothing weird like that ever happened again. I couldn’t tell you if it was real or a figment of my imagination; the whole thing was so unbelievable, but the important part is that I’m writing again with a renewed sense of ease.
