Descriptive one-shots

Writing Troubles

The sound of clicking surrounds her, but the silence only a few inches away are all she can think about. It was the last day she could work on her paper, yet too much inspiration held her back. Too many thoughts occupied her brain. Many words had been written, but none cohesive enough to be considered passable. Every day she had time to work on her story, the most frequent key she used was backspace.

She raised her head, her gaze shifting helplessly to the only adult in the room. It felt childish. She felt childish. Writer's block was infuriating, but her lack of focus was found even harder to deal with.

Each new sentence would either be unsatisfactory and would be quickly deleted, or feel misplaced and shifted to a paragraph she would later delete.

Her body and mind felt drained. The heat she was enduring made matters worse. While she could stop and wait to finish, it would never get done. If she doesn't find her words soon, her words would be lost forever. 

Her hand reached to her cheek, nails scraping against her damaged patch of skin until blood oozed under her nails. She failed to recall where such damage was received. A pimple victim of her poor habits? Nerves creating the damage in the first place? Whatever it was, it was a new problem she had to live with. While constantly scolded for her bad habit, it became hard to break. It was something she did to keep busy. Maybe to help her think, but it's highly unlikely. 

Multiple tabs taunted her. One was a story that had everything she was striving for while the rest were an attempt to solidify an inspiration. However, the tab currently staring back at her was a gibberish mess. It means everything to her, but it would mean nothing to the reader. Scrolling through her words provided no comfort. It made her more and more furious. She hated each word staring back at her. 

But each word was still the truth. A scattered mess, but the scattered mess finally released from her brain. The backspace key became so tempting. A descriptive piece was never her strong suit. Her written dialogue was barely passable, but it always felt more coherent than her descriptions. 

Reading through her words would only provide second thoughts and another look at her most used tool. This isn't what she wants, but she knows it's what she needs. It barely fulfills the task she's striven for, yet it completes the task she's been assigned. 

That's all anyone wants: short, sweet, and to the point. 

It isn't who she really wants to be, though.