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What You Haven't Written Yet

This is a guest post by Adam Busch.

What if you only had only one more day to write? What would you write?

Snows of Kilimanjaro Quote

This is the dilemma faced by Harry of Ernest Hemingway’s short story, “The Snows of Kilamanjaro.” We find Harry on his deathbed, plagued by the depression that his life will soon end. Yet, the thought that torments Harry most is that he will never be able to write all of the stories he has put off writing over the years. Hemingway writes:

He remembered the good times with them all, and the quarrels. They always picked the finest places to have the quarrels. And why had they always quarreled when he was feeling best? He had never written any of that because, at first, he never wanted to hurt any one and then it seemed as though there was enough to write without it. But he had always thought that he would write it finally, there was so much to write. He had seen the world change; not just the events; although he had seen many of them and had watched the people, but he had seen the subtler change and he could remember how the people were at different times. He had been in it and he had watched it and it was his duty to write of it; but now he never would.
—”The Snows of Kilimanjaro,” Ernest Hemingway.

Why We Don’t Write

The writer is a strange breed. We see the world through a lens that tries to understand the reason why and how people react and behave, and then we project it onto our own paper, with our own understanding.

Yet, we don’t always get around to writing these things that we notice. Sometimes it may be distractions such as work, friends, family, or just lack of time that keeps us from writing. Or maybe it is because we don’t know enough about what it is that we want to write. So we wait until later, putting it off and separating that initial burst of inspiration from the actual process of writing because we think that our feelings of incompetence to address the subject is only temporary.

But, Harry addresses a third reason why he has failed to write during his lifetime: fear.

He speaks of the fear that our words and their meaning may reveal something that we know, feel or think that may hurt those around us.

In my own writing, I’ve come to see that I cannot write about a relationship that I am in at the time. I can only write about it retrospect because I fear what the result could have upon the present. Likewise, when I use my past and family to fill out a story, I am terrified of the possibility of my family learning that my fiction represents something more.

But when we experience this fear that our words are powerful enough to hurt those around us, we must not abstain from writing them. If the emotions and reasons behind the writing are true and powerful, it is our “duty to write of it.” For when a real and powerful emotion is represented in a meaningful, artistic way, it is a direct channel for insight into the human experience.

What are you afraid to write about? 

PRACTICE

For today’s practice, I suggest we write a story (or the story) that we have always been afraid to write. If it is lack of information that prevents you, push through it. If you have ever thought about a story and left it floating in your head, put it down now. And if the story is one that is all too real and true for you to admit, imagine what it would be like to never write again. Wouldn’t this story be the one that you would always regret not writing?

Write for fifteen minutes. When you’re time is up, post your practice in the comments section.

And if you post, please be sure to comment on a few practices by other writers.

About Joe Bunting

Joe Bunting is a writer and entrepreneur. He is the author of the #1 Amazon Bestseller Let's Write a Short Story! and the co-founder of Story Cartel. You can follow him on Twitter (@joebunting).

  • I’d have to finish a story everyday!!! I really like having lots of snippets of ideas, even though they can’t all be separate stories… I only wish I was better at pairing them together. I did that once, and the premise of the story that resulted was actually very interesting!

    • I know what you mean!

    • I know what you mean too! And I think that’s a good approach to stories too. I’ve done it before and I like the puzzle of connecting the dots of different ideas.

  • a_little_bird

    Reed Marcher’s red face floated toward him in the crowd, muscled neck bulging out of the tight collar of his dress shirt, tie in place as always, moving his bulldog body through space as assertively as ever, pupils giant behind thick glasses, his tough-guy persona still coming off him like dark gray smoke in his eighties. Such men had dealt out the misery in school to guys who were never brave enough to openly rebel, but who had wanted to the whole time; he was the willing wielder of the paddle and the attitude for forty years as an educator. Such men could smell rebellion unexpressed, and chased it down with a zeal that would do Homeland Security proud.

    Reed got a tight smile on his face as he approached, and he barked, “How ya doin’, John BOY?!” John felt his knees go weak, but he pulled himself up and said quietly, “Reed, my middle name is not ‘boy’.”

    Reed’s red face turned redder, and he barked, “Sorry, s—–“, stopping himself from addressing someone as “sir” who doesn’t deserve it — hair’s too long, and he walks like he’s on somethin’.

    Walking out of the building a minute later, all the voices began to come back. The harsh tones of his older sister’s voice on the phone — “That teenage girl in your room was just beyond the bounds of propriety. You’re too old!” She still sends him a card every December inviting him to the big family dinner (and how she came by his new address he doesn’t understand. He sure didn’t give it to any of them.); she apparently feels he should how up, be polite and otherwise keep his mouth shut. The voice of his other sister, thirty years before: “Of COURSE we’re all conservatives! What else IS there?!”

    The righteousness. The utter certainty. Punishments politely meted out. Insults coated with civility delivered with elan, or at other times just the good old undiluted industrial-strength formula. All for my moral correction, the thought again dryly, his stomach momentarily sinking at the same time.

    Rough road to be this way in Bubbaville. Then he smiled grimly. But I wouldn’t change a &*^^)**%$* thing.

    • Wow, Reed Marcher is a really interesting character. The first paragraph gave a really strong image of his personality. But, what’s great is the seemingly mixed feelings he has for his background and upbringing. I hope you write more of Reed.

      • a_little_bird

        Thank you for your encouraging comments. I think you unwittingly pointed out a viewpoint problem with the two characters — the last three paragraphs were intended to convey John’s thoughts, not Reed’s. More work to do. Thanks again.

    • Rose Gardener

      I like how the rebel in him wasn’t crushed by their attempts at moral correction. Go, John! Be yourself and stuff what ‘they’ think.

      • a_little_bird

        Thank you, thank you, thank you, seriously, for the support!

    • Gosh, this makes riveting reading

      • a_little-bird

        Thank you!

  • I kept writing until I came to the last line because that was all I really wanted to say.

    I found
    Ayla sitting in the kitchen with one of her girlfriends and Dave. For the first time in our relationship, I
    didn’t want to see her. But she saw me
    and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

    We were at this house party in
    this two story Victorian house that was filled to the brim with people. It was a small college town and I should have
    known that I’d run into my girlfriend on a Friday night no matter what.

    “Hey,” I said, standing in front
    of their table, “Hey Lori, hey Dave.” When they all said hello back, Dave
    wouldn’t look straight at me.

    “I tried calling you today,” I
    said to Ayla, “why didn’t you answer?”

    “My phone died in the morning,”
    she said, “I was at school all day and couldn’t charge it. Who did you come
    here with?”

    “My presentation members.”

    “Oh” her lips read, but she only
    smiled.

    “The presentation went really
    well,” I said. “We came here to
    celebrate. What are you doing here?”

    “The same as you, I suppose,”
    she said and I looked at her then Dave. Lori had started talking to some guy
    behind us, leaving only the three of us with our conversation.

    It was then that one of my group
    members, Clarice showed up. She came out
    of nowhere like a blip of smoke. She
    addressed Ayla, smiling and being nice and knowing she was my girlfriend, not
    knowing that she’d been the subject of the fight we had the night before. I could tell Dave knew about it because she
    always told him everything and he still wouldn’t make eye contact with me.

    I introduced Clarice to Dave and
    they shook hands. She asked me how we all knew each other, and I told her I
    knew him through Ayla, and that Ayla and him and known each other for a long
    time and had been good friends for about the same time too. I didn’t let Ayla pipe in when I told Clarice
    about the two of them. I just told her
    the facts, plain and simple, making it clear how good of friends they
    were.

    A silence came up after and Dave
    said that he had to go and before he left, he finally looked me in the
    eyes. I gripped the beer I was holding. A part of me that was becoming more prominent
    with each drink and every tic-tocking second standing there in front of that
    table wanted to break it across his face.

    Some friend of Clarice’s came up
    and they started talking.

    “We should go home,” I said to
    Ayla. She got up and I saw that she was
    wearing the dress I’d bought her for her birthday a couple weeks ago. It was this bright orange, almost neon, dress
    that hung against her skin, showing her tiny frame. Somehow I hadn’t noticed it. It was stupid how I hadn’t with it being so
    bright. She stood up, sighed, grabbed her bag and was finally just alone.

    She was wowed by the dress when
    I gave it to her. It was really bright,
    that’s for sure. I knew she never wore
    such colorful things, but when I saw it, I just had this feeling about it. And when I gave it to her, she laughed at it
    and said she’d never forget that it was me who’d given it. She’d only wore it a few times. Each of those
    times had been a special occasion like when we went out to a nice restaurant to
    get steaks or for her sister’s birthday party.

    We walked back to her house and
    we didn’t say anything besides a few “how was your day” comments. But it was just us and even though there was
    two-person wide gap between us, it was just us.

    We went up to her room and I lay
    down in the bed and she said she was going to take a shower.

    “We need to talk about things,
    don’t we?” I said.

    “Not tonight, Trev. I’m going to
    take a shower.”

    “Alright,” I said and she walked
    into the bathroom and shut door.

    The shower faucet began
    sputtering till it was a full spray and I heard her clothes fall to the
    floor. I sat in the bed for a few
    moments looking around her room. She
    kept tacked up on one of her walls a bunch of photos of her family and
    friends. She had a couple of her and
    Dave, back from before I knew either of them.
    But there were a good bunch of us.
    I started looking at all of them and I realized that there were more of
    them than I’d ever thought. So many of
    them were just us.

    The shower was still going and I
    got up and walked into the bathroom. I
    took off my clothes and laid them down by hers.
    I opened up the shower curtain and the steam was rising above her. She looked at me and I took a step to her and
    hugged her. I put my face against the
    side of hers and she wrapped her arms around me and we stood there hugging
    till the water ran cold.

    • I didn’t think this would be so long 🙁

    • Rose Gardener

      I really liked how they came together at the end; the shower symbolic of forgiveness as it washed away the argument. There’s a real sense that this couple will make it in the long term.

    • tooprolonged

      Simple and evocative. I really liked this.

    • lovely ending….

  • Rose Gardener

    Out There

    His words ring in my ears. ‘There’s a wonderful, fulfilling life out there waiting for you; all you have to do is walk out the door and grab it.’

    I look through the window at Out There and shake my head. How do I begin to explain that it is not agoraphobia that keeps me imprisoned in my house?

    People are quick to judge. They’re so sure I’m missing out, wasting my life. They see my inability to pass through the doorway and think it is courage I lack. Perhaps you agree with them?

    Imagine yourself locked in my house, twenty-four seven, for nine years. Close your eyes and put yourself in my size six shoes. Does the leather pinch your toes? Are you swamped by the desire to escape, to take great gulps of fresh air?

    Look out the window at my garden. Watch the house sparrows take off and fly beyond your range of vision the instant they become airborne. Did you crane your neck to see around the corner? Have words like solitary confinement and torture started to bounce around the six by four foot cell inside your skull?

    They did in mine, a long time ago. After my other self died. I floated ghost-like from window to window longing for another inch of blue sky and wasted countless hours staring at brown soil, lack of colour leaving me bereft.

    It took about five years for my micro-world to teach me how to live. Not live again, not find contentment within the limits of these four immobile walls, but to live. Locked in my prison, I am freer now than I have ever been.

    I can take off my glasses, stand back from the window and observe 360 degrees of horizon with 20/20 vision. Eyelids at rest, the tea-scented roses in my garden arch around me in a rainbow. Behind closed shades, the sun thaws my winter-white skin. The flap of a sparrow’s wing whistles in my ear and raindrops from a spring shower fizzle on my tongue. My clock is the angle of shadows, my calendar the subtle switch from yellow to white in the sunrise. I am alive and I am happy.

    So, did you judge me when you learned of my situation? Did you see the four walls of my house as a prison, or look closer and see the soul alive within them? Have I surprised you?

    Out There contains delicious pink candy floss and disgusting brown shit. The world I choose to inhabit is mostly devoid of brown stuff; I prefer to surround myself with burnt earth and dark chocolate. But, go on world, I dare you! Offer me something I can’t resist and just you wait and see if I don’t walk right out the door and grab it.

    • John

      Very descriptive of the isolation and anger that many of us can identify with. This is worthy IMO of being developed further. I hope you run with it.

      • Rose Gardener

        Thanks, John. I have started to write a novel loosely based on my life, but hope to draw on my experiences to develop the character rather than write an auto-biography.

    • Intense feelings. Very well expressed.

      • Rose Gardener

        Thank you, Ranjeetha

  • Yes, I hesitated to use the experience with dementia that I’m having as my mother ages. However, the way the truth of that experience filled out and illuminated the parts of my bigger story that this smaller story inhabited, was really quite magical. Nothing like realism to illuminate the magic of fiction…

  • Naya Scattergood

    I have done this for so long. I live an alternative lifestyle that many of my friends and family wouldn’t understand. So I tend to avoid putting anything in my novels that would give me away even though I’ve got ideas for novels that center around this lifestyle. I’ve committed to writing one, though. We’ll see how it goes. 🙂

    • Way to commit! I’m glad you are going for it!

  • tooprolonged

    The door opens to Lacey’s thin, practiced smile, her arms already poised for the requisite group hug.

    “GUYS!” she gushes.

    I turn my body so that I don’t have to feel her carefully arranged breasts crush against mine, and know James is probably doing precisely the opposite, moving instinctively sex-ward even in the depths of his depression and probably, in fact, because of it. By the time I’ve recovered from the overly intimate greeting she’s already groping a camera from the shelf.

    “You guys are just so cute together!” she emotes, and we shift in a similarly uncomfortable way as someone informs her, about two months too late, that, actually, we broke up.

    “Why didn’t anyone fucking tell me?”

    “It’s okay, Lacey,” says James, or maybe it’s me, but she’s already undulating toward the door’s latest dispatch, smiling with as many teeth as she can safely expose.

    I look at James from beneath his jawline, angling so that his features blend with the coarse decorations and whitewashed walls, realizing all at once that I haven’t made eye contact with him once since we left downtown, or maybe even since we sat at that whiskey bar a year ago, pretending, still, to try. But this is supposed to be a night where nothing matters but the uninterrupted flow of champagne, and I’m desperate to buy into the wine-soaked version of this cheap Hallmark holiday, so I relegate this other, small heartbreak to the back of my mind, where it can’t interfere with tonight’s masquerade.

    James has disappeared to make his usual rounds, effortlessly fluent in this initial stage of social exchanges, still sober enough not to howl his slurs down the asphalt pitch of New York’s bar district. Still gentleman enough not to pull his cock out in the smoking room at Arsenic. His smile is everything Lacey’s pretends at, made more genuine in its distress, and I position myself in a room it doesn’t occupy, both afraid of and longing to be pulled back into it.

    The party begins to reel into tragic territory around ten, two hours before the world resets and we pursue our New Year’s goals with what we imagine to be freshness. Rory stands outside the bedroom door where his girlfriend is straddling some strange New Year’s cock, and Marie tells me James is crying on the stairs. I feel the crushing responsibility of the recently-made-single, forgetting, with an aggressive blindness, that he’s cried nearly every weekend of his life.

    I edge my way down the bitter-cold steps in front of the building, feeding the growth of an internal numbness. Matt is crying, as reported. I observe as from a distance of eons and make the effort–one proven unanimously useless in human history–to mend the heart I helped shatter.

    When he proposes, still drunk, I pray for my legs to break beneath me.

    When I realize that they won’t–that I’ll live through this as well–I pick my way back up the steps to find Marie.

    “James,” I say, and she nods in understanding.

    Somewhere else in the world, a new year begins.

  • liliana

    If you
    could creep into my mind, you would probably send me to a psych ward.
    And if you were friends with me, well, you would avoid me at all costs
    after discovering all the things that I think about and knowing the
    emotions I go through. That’s why people can’t creep into minds, I
    guess. It makes the world a naiver, happier place.

    Oh, my thoughts. I’m a teenager. Why do I think about so many
    complicated things?? Why can’t I live up my childhood on carousels and
    in playgrounds, why isn’t it enough anymore to occupy myself with Lego??
    Is the world getting bigger? Or am I just growing up?

    I wish life could go back to the way it was when I was seven years old,
    when I didn’t have to think. I miss the days when my world was a much
    smaller place, and I just lived without analyzing and worrying about
    every aspect of it. Now it’s so much harder to live. I think about
    everything I see, and I doubt every promise. Nothing just happens
    anymore. It’s all part of a bigger picture which I’m still struggling to
    understand.

    Is this normal, or am I insane?

    Normal. Insane. Normal. Insane.

    Normal. Insane.

    Normal.

    Insane.

  • They say the world will end on Friday, the longest day of the year, when darkness reigns.

    The room was dark when it happened, when I brought that glass of precious sweet bird’s nest double-boiled with dried fruit to my father’s room.

    He was napping, his usual after work nap before dinner. He worked hard to support all of us – Grandma, Great Aunt, mother, the five of us, the two cooks, the maids the driver. He deserved that glass of expensive bird’s nest Grandma had boiled just for him, that she’d picked all the feather’s out of with tweezers and a magnifying glass. It would cool the heated tempers running through his body, it would calm him down so at dinner there would be no scenes; not with mother, not with my brothers, not at the servants.

    The air-conditioner was on. My father was snoring gently. I put the glass on my father’s desk and turned to go.
    I was ten that year and had grown quickly, my arms becoming unnaturally long. My elbows brushed against the glass and slowly it began to fall over, spilling half the precious liquid onto the carpet.
    The cup was half full now. I looked at the wet carpet at my feet. There was a box of tissues on my mother’s dressing table. I reached for them and pressed a few pieces onto the carpet. Then carefully, I brought the sodden tissues up to the glass and squeezed all the precious liquid back into the glass. I did this stealthily three of four times, till the glass was almost full again. Then I left the room, closing the door quietly, and flushed the tissues down the toilet of the children’s bathroom.
    My father had the empty glass with him when he came down for dinner. He gave it to the maid without a word. At dinner, he was calm, cool, as he usually was after a good nap, a drink of the elixir.

  • This is my first time here….I wrote this yesterday but wasn’t sure I should share it. You all are such good writers and that kind of makes me nervous. But today I mastered the courage to type it out and share it with you all. So here goes!!

    The rain spluttered the glass as if begging to be let in. Mel could not hear the rain or smell it. She
    pressed her cheeks against the window. The cold crept into her cheeks. She began
    to trace the tracks of the rain drops that trickled down the window pane like
    tear drops. Closing her tired eyes, she tried to calm the voices in her head.

    Suddenly she stopped herself realizing she wasn’t at home. People
    might think she lost her senses or something. She looked around to see if
    anyone had been watching her.

    Most of the people were asleep on the waiting chairs while
    the rest had their eyes glued to the glass door, which had a red sign saying ICCU.

    She returned to her window with relief.

    The sweet smell of rain as it wetted the parched earth and
    the grass lawn outside was missed inside the air-conditioned hospital building.
    Instead her nose caught the hospital cents; the smell of Dettol and antiseptics;
    of disinfected floor and iodine. She never liked hospital smells.

    “Not today, Oh! Please not today” she prayed. Abandoning her
    post at the window, Mel began to pace about restlessly to calm her nerves.

    The door to the ICCU finally opened. And the doctor on night
    duty came out. He was met with questions by the relatives of people admitted inside
    awaiting their destiny. He answered each of them in an emotionless voice after
    verifying who was with whom.

    Mel waited patiently for her turn, wringing her hands. She
    suddenly felt her fingers turning cold and numb.

    When her turn came she asked “How is he?” trying hard to
    keep her voice from betraying her emotion.

    “You are with?”

    “Mr. Edward Daniel, my father”.

    “At present, his body is very weak. This is his third
    attack. It was a major one, not like the previous two”.

    Mel’s eyes began to well up. The doctor checked his
    matter-of fact tone of voice and adapted a more sympathetic tone.

    “I am sorry. I am not his doctor, so I can’t say much to
    you. He will be examined by his cardiologist, Dr. Nelson, tomorrow morning. As
    of now, he is under observation for the next 24 hours”.

    The doctor explained to Mel that there were chances that her
    dad will be shifted to his room the next day, but he will still be under
    medical supervision.

    “I can’t give permission to move him, so let’s wait for Dr.
    Nelson”.

    “Thank you doctor” was all Mel could say.

    “I am sorry, he won’t make it” said the doctor to the next
    patient’s relative, a young man in his early twenties. He was alone, just like
    Mel.

    “How long?” he asked in a trembling voice.

    “Maximum 48 hours. You should inform your family” replied
    the doctor and gave the man a sympathetic pat on the back.

    “Yes, doctor. I will”.

    The man sat down and buried his face in his hands. His whole
    body began to vibrate and muffled sobs arose. A few bystanders gathered around
    to console him.

    Mel collapsed into the nearest chair and wondered if she was
    luckier than the young man sobbing beside her. Tomorrow she could be the one
    sobbing. But would it be tears of relief or those of sorrow? Only tomorrow can
    tell.

    “Another 24 hours of
    uncertainty” she thought to herself.

    • Welcome to the Write Practice! This scene that you posted was very to the point. You did a good job maintaining the mood as well as contrasting the life outside of the hospital with the lifelessness inside. Way to go!

  • Atiya

    “But when we experience this fear that our words are powerful enough to hurt those around us, we must not abstain from writing them. If the emotions and reasons behind the writing are true and powerful, it is our “duty to write of it.” The content of this blog post feels as if it was written just for me. You are so right! At least from my perspective. Thank you for tapping on a door I had closed, awaken what I had let go to sleep.

  • Dusty Ranft

    Thank you for this. I am a writer, but for years have failed to write the stories that need to be told. The ones that I fear the most, they are screaming to be told…This year, I will tell their tale. I will release them from their cages, allowing the words to soar from the page. Free at last, no longer afraid of who might recognize a part of themselves in these tales. No longer afraid that I, I may recognize a former self…Long forgotten, but right below the surface. A quick glimpse of a previous life. I will still be me and you will still be you. And who knows who we are yet to become. Because that is the beauty of story really, right? That at any moment, we just change the story, and we are free…Reborn, you and me.

  • Tamera

    He swore on his mother’s grave, but then he swore on just about everything. Yet, she still could not believe he was late on her Birthday of all days. Her eighteenth birthday even, it felt like a big deal to her. But, she waited in front of the dorms anyway. It was a Friday night and the campus was bursting with energy and so was she. She heard the booming bass from his car stereo, and knew he was close. He pulled up, and leaned across the seat to open her door. In her seat
    was a paper bag with bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 in it. “Classy.” She thought. But, she didn’t really care, it was her birthday and they could have some drinks.
    “So, Where to?” she said.

    “I don’t know, it’s your birthday, I thought you’d have a plan.”

    “I thought you’d have a plan.”

    Since nobody had a plan, they ended up at Red Robin. She never could say no to a Terriyaki Chicken Sandwich, so this seemed okay. Wouldn’t you know it half way through dinner his ex-girlfriend walked in. She wasted no time cutting across the restaurant to their table.

    “I see you didn’t waste any time,” she sneered.
    “You must be Jennifer, I’ve heard all about you.”

    Jennifer had not heard all about his exgirlfriend however.

    “I really didn’t think you were a white girl. To each their own I guess.”

    He slammed his drink down on the table and stood up.

    “If you’ve got a problem with her, you’ve got a problem with me. Do you have a problem?”

    “Yeah, I do. I gotta problem, what are you gonna do?”

    Sean, please sit down. It’s my birthday. But he didn’t sit down. Her current boyfriend approached the table and it looked like there was going to be a fight. She went to the bathroom hoping they would just stop and she could get back to her birthday. She closed the stall door, she couldn’t lock it because her fingers were shaking so badly. After a few breaths, she went back out. They were gone. Everyone, including Sean. She went out to the parking lot. He was waiting in the
    car. Get in. he said through the open window. She sat down, put on her seat
    belt, and opened the bottle inside the paper bag. He started driving, she started
    drinking. Some time later they arrived at his house. The cheap alcohol she’d been chugging in the car, made her sick. As soon as she opened the door of the car she threw up in the driveway.

    “God dammit!” He yelled. “Can’t you hold your liquor?”
    He got the hose and started cleaning the driveway while she stumbled to the
    door. “Go downstairs,” he said, “I don’t want my parents to hear you.” She knew
    the way, and headed to the bathroom to clean up. He turned the tv on and was waiting on the couch when she came out. “Want to play some pool?” “Sure,” she said. “I’m not very good, you’ll have to teach me.” They laughed and hit a few balls around on the table. Things were getting back to normal. When they were close he picked her up and sat her on the edge of the pool table.

    “Will you always be there for me baby?” He said.
    “Of course I will,” she said.

    “Like the time my brother died? You weren’t there for me then.”
    “We’ve been through this Sean, I explained it to you, I’m so sorry.”
    “I don’t believe you,” he said.

    “I’m sorry, I don’t want to talk about it.”
    Before she knew what happened he whacked her in the head with the pool
    stick and she was flat on her back on the table. Before she could say anything, he put a gun in her mouth. Then he asked her again, “Will you always be there for me baby?” She couldn’t answer, think, or feel. He took the gun out for a moment as if to let her answer, but as soon as she started to speak, he shoved it back in.
    The cold metal gun broke her tooth, and it hurt. But, it didn’t hurt as much. It didn’t hurt as much as what happened next.

  • amrit

    Why do I want to
    write….

    We, as humans, are selfish and sensitive at the same time. Sometimes, we selfishly create our own world in which everything happens to our wish making us happy for the time-being. We want to be in that world, perhaps to experience what appears to us as joy or happiness. But when the reality clashes with the imagination, its like a big bang of the waves of the sea and mighty rock cliff. The very first clash destroys the waves. Making a roaring noise it returns back to the ocean and becomes quiet. That roar is simply not the sound produced because the waves, it is the cry of the ocean, which realizes that it cannot go further,
    beyond
    the rock. Our condition as humans are same. When our hopes and wishes
    get crushed by the cliff of reality, we shatter. A deep roar comes from
    our heart which can only be heard by us, just like the lonely ocean.
    Tears flow from eyes, terrible agony piercing our heart, making us weak.

    But the ocean doesn’t lose hope. With sheer patience, its waves hit the strong rock again and again. And in due course of time it crushes the rocks turning them into sand. How does it do it? From where it gets this amount of patience? From where does it gets this amount of faith? Maybe as humans, we don’t have this much patience or belief to change our own destiny like the ocean. I am no exception. I am also too weak to bear this much gloom. I also want to be happy, experience joy.
    This is why I want to write. Neither I have the patience of the mighty ocean or a steady belief. I cannot make amends to the world created by God. He is the master of it, He knows everything better than anyone else. I have to create my own alternate world where I am the master, where I can blend all the imperfections of the reality and mould them according to my wish, making a perfect world for myself. And the joy which I will be getting after creating it, perhaps, I may be able
    to borrow a little joy from that abstract, imaginary world and try to infuse it
    in my own imperfect and real life, giving me a reason to be happy despite of
    all odds. Maybe that little joy will serve as the fuel to rejuvenate my
    pathetic life and provides me my self-confidence.

    please guys comment on this…this is my first post…and i want to know feedbacks…how is it?