If you haven’t noticed, I’ve started writing a little something. It’s an idea I’ve kind of had running around in my head for awhile, so yesterday I decided to start writing it.
I don’t want to spoil anything, so I’m not going to say what it’s about, who the characters are, or anything. If you really want to know, you’ll just have to keep reading. I’m going to try to write a little more of it every day so that I can make sure I continue it.
If I ever don’t post one day, feel free to bug me about it.
Sarah leaned back in the old chair, her hands on the dark green cover of the book that said “Journal” within the velvet-like material. She had never met her father, but she felt that she knew all about him from this little notebook; her father’s very own journal; the pages that he poured his heart out to.
Henry sat at the small black desk that his father had built ages ago. There was a small notebook that lay closed in the middle of the desk. The cover of the notebook was dark green and almost felt like velvet as he ran his fingers lightly over it for the thousandth time. As his fingers slid off the bottom edge of the notebook they found the cold touch of a pen that had been left untouched for what seemed like forever. Henry picked up the pen and ran his fingers over the notebook again then pulled the cover open and flipped through the pages that had the familiar handwriting until he found an empty page. He repositioned the pen in his hand and pressed it to the paper.
Another school year started not long ago (just about a month ago) and I’m already starting to get stressed out again. I’ve been getting headaches almost every night and I haven’t been able to sleep all that well. But none of that is really new, is it? Then again, nothing is ever new for me. Once again, I’m off in my own little world and no one will take the time to notice. Maybe one day, just once, someone will notice without me having to say something. I dou
Henry stopped writing after he heard a knock on the door. He put the pen down, closed the notebook, making sure to stroke the cover once again, and pulled the cover back down over the old writing desk.
“Henry, one of your friends is here to see you,” a voice said through the white wooden door of his room.
“Coming, Mother. Tell them I’ll be right down,” Henry said in return as he looked around the room for his shoes and a coat.