The paper was blank. I stared at it- for five minutes, then ten. Then I looked at the clock. I'd been staring for an hour. And still, the paper remained: blank, pen resting next to it. I could hear the freeway outside, sirens in the distance. Someone across the hall was shouting into the phone.
The story- whenever it came to me, would be good. I just knew it. It was always like this, it seemed.
But when he had broken my heart, I thought for sure this would make my creative piece for class soar.
I was wrong.
The microwave beeped. I walked over, ripping open the bag of tea. Calming, yes. But it wouldn't help me write the amazing, creative story I knew was going bursting at the seams.
Cliche. Horrible language. Writer's block. Bored.
The piece of paper blew in the gentle breeze, settling onto the floor. One last glance was all I needed.
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