Short stories I write

The blinking line stares at me. How long have I been at it? One hour, two, maybe three? Time blurs together and this mind of mine's morning fog doesn't allow it to process or create anything of worth or value. I glare at the blinking light, how dare it blink at me. That action is useless, and realization that the deadline, which in three hours will roast me alive, doesn't help me one bit. Weak weak weak weak WEAK! My hands deliberately begin to press down on the keys of the board. Words quickly form, but it's clearly an unintelligible mess. Spew-age of nonsensical phrases and verbs, in hopes that I can write something well written and well presented. Blinking line why do you torment me so.

A bright red circle slowly approaches me as I suck on the cylindrical object in my mouth. The ashes at the tip fall off as the smoldering continues toward me. Shifting my body, I sit upright and focus even more. I'll start it off with, "A boy walks into a store." Wait no backtrack that. The loud, violent tapping of backspace erases that sentence from existence. I need to make it more powerful, well executed. I start again. "A boy of twelve wanders into a gas station store. The boy sobs to the man that he cannot find his parents. Station man calls upon his wife to console this child, as the station man tends to despise children. The station woman quickly comes to help the child." I look at this and become giddy.

I take the cigarette out of my mouth and push it into the ashtray. Its head crumbling under my direct and forceful push. The smolder red mini flame goes out quickly. I continue to write quickly and loudly. Each finger press on the keyboard loudly resonating, surely to wake up my companion in the other room. But my joy at my new-found inspiration makes me care not at all. As I near the completion of the story, my grin becomes wider as my cheeks ache extremely badly. I chuckle to myself and send it to editor just five minutes over the deadline.