Once again...

Ah the blank page - sometimes I'm so glad to see you and other times you fill me with guilt and terror. You taunt me with your white brightness but compliment me when the black printed words rush out to cover your naked-ness. A prize and a curse. I chose. You chose. We win. We lose. No delete today. No retreat today. Fear will no longer restrain me.

Go, go, go.

Somewhere out there

Sorry I got lost and have been fighting my way back here for days. I've lost count of the days, the nights, the in-betweeners. I've missed this. The therapeutic sharing of my thoughts through words. I've been dreaming. Dreaming in other worlds. I'm awake now. Wide awake.

Duuudes, have I like totally blown your mind? Maybe I'm not completely back. It may be an illusion from your past that could be very pertinent to your future. I'm merely visiting. Someone will be back to soon to set the record straight.

One at a time.

The music played on in her head. She tried to keep her eyes focussed on her fingers hitting the keys and then on the words that appeared on the white page in front of her. It is only the words that matter. She has to get the words out each day otherwise she fails. Fails herself. It is only herself but she knows she wouldn't be happy living with that kind of disappointment. Life would be dull. The colours would fade and everything would be grey. She'd go on. She'd have no choice and she'd smile sometimes. The smile would never reach her eyes and at night, at night when everyone around her slept, she'd weep for the words she failed to get out. One word at a time. Just keep going.

Words had always been important to her. She didn't always write. Not like this. Not every day. Unless keeping a diary from the age of nine counts. She'd written her first play at the age of 10. It had been an assignment for an English lesson. The teacher had paired her with Grant, a boy she'd secretly had a crush on. They had to write a short play, a short one - just a page or so - using the guidelines on the board. They were to write it on scrap paper before copying in neatly into their workbooks. They had 2 weeks to do it. Grant hadn't been very excited about the idea.

'I'll write it. I don't mind. Then you can just copy it into your book when I'm done. If you want.'

Of course, Grant had agreed.

The teacher handed out big wads of computer paper - you know the kind that had the holes down each side and linked to the next page with a perforated edge.

That was the first day that the words started to come out. After 2 weeks, she still hadn't finished the play and Grant was starting to panic that he would get in trouble for not copying the play into his book. 'Murder she wrote' was a popular show at the time and she had written an episode of the show in play format. It had taken longer than she thought and the play had filled up about 20 pages and Jessica Fletcher still hadn't completely solved the mystery. She was close though.

When she showed Grant the play, he'd been furious.

'No way am I copying all of that into my book. It's too long. We are going to be in big trouble and it's all your fault.'

She didn't know what to say. The boy she liked now hated her. She'd wanted to impress him. She didn't want to get him into trouble.

'I'll finish it this afternoon and then I'll show Mrs Puckey tomorrow. I'll show her how long it is. She might not make us copy it. I'll tell her it was my fault. That I said I'd finish it.' She told him.

'Fine. I better not get detention. '

'You won't, I'll tell her it was all my fault. Do you want to read the play though?'

'No way. Are you crazy? It's too long.'

It was her first rejection. The boy she'd written her play for didn't even want to read it. It hurt but she didn't cry in front of him. Stupid boy.

She did finish the play that afternoon and the next morning before everyone came into class she went to speak to her teacher. She told her about the play she'd written and that it was finished in time but they hadn't copied it into their books yet.

'And why not?'

'It is quite long' she said and showed her the wad of computer paper that she'd used.

'Oh my, that is way too long. You were only supposed to write a page. You'll have to summarise it. You have until the end of the day to hand it in. Next time you must follow my instructions.'

'Yes mam.'

She didn't know what else to say. She knew she would never be able to summarise the whole play into a page. So she spent every moment she could, even working through her breaks in the classroom and wrote a short play about a girl who loves a boy but the boy rejects her. Her heart broken the girl leaves a note for her parents and leaves. The play ends with the grown-up girl returning. She is very beautiful and the grown-up version of the boy does not recognise her. He tells her that he loves her. She laughs at him. The play ended with her laughing. Revenge and the short play requested.

Grant copied it into his book in time. They got an A for the assignment. Everyone else was happy again. Words had been her therapy. She'd gotten over her first rejection by writing a play about a girl getting revenge for her own rejection. Her first play remains unread.

Words were always there. She just needs to keep typing them. One word at a time.

My turn.

No-one. Completely empty of any other being human or animal. The menacing culprit I almost called the police to come save me from is an open window that is allowing a March breeze to flap through the curtains and periodically bump into the cupboard door that someone left ajar.
It's all those horror movies he loves to watch. The ones that I've been jumping in my seat and hiding behind my hands through for years. They're making me imagine the worst. Tonight we are watching a romantic comedy or better yet a drama that will have me weeping at the end. My sanity demands it.

Adam's turn

Haven't you seen the movies? Don't you know how this ends? If only you could answer me I would feel braver. I can feel the trembling in my fingers the icy cold damp of fear running down my back. Why do I have to do this? Can't I just close my eyes and wish the sound away?
‘Hello!’ Still nothing just that door calling me closer with each bang.
The phone is lying on the table next to the kitchen door; the image of the person on the other end laughing makes me decide against calling 911. I hold the phone up over my head as I enter the kitchen.

It's been a few weeks since he wrote this. Oops! I'll try follow on today.

Adam... your turn

Shh! Can you hear that? No? It's the cupboard door in the kitchen. It has been opening and closing itself the whole day.I'm not sure if the cabin fever has gotten its evil bite into me. God you sure you don't hear it. (See comment by Adam).
God, are you there? Have you forsaken me in my hour of madness? This is madness talking to myself. I should just get up and check on the cupboard. It is probably not been shut properly and keeps banging open and closed in the breeze. Wait. There is someone in the kitchen now. Someone humming. I know that tune.
'Hello. Is someone home?' Silence. The humming has stopped. Klik. The cupboard door again. God, you there? Did you hear it this time? Screw this. I'm going in there.

Your Turn.

The Beat must go on!

The sound of his drumming echoed in her ears. She loves to hear him play. The loud, fast beat seems to calm her. She still gets a thrill just watching him. Nervous little butterflies fight each other in her stomach. She falls in love again each time. That's my man!
The look of passive concentration on his face when he is in what she calls the zone. The bounce that starts in his feet and writhes it's way throughout his whole body. The pleasure he gets from playing shows and something about that passion really turns her on. The beat draws her in. The beat commands her to listen. The beat owns her.