Young Writers Society

Her eyes darted around the room nervously, two bloodshot holes. She tapped her pen on the wooden desk, rapidly; frantically.
Ra-ta-tap-tap, ra-ta-tap-tap.
The room was white plaster, the floor cold cement. On the far wall across from her was a locked door. The only things in the room were the girl, sitting in front of a desk with thirty sheets of lined paper on it, and a blue chair, the type you find in classrooms, which the girl sat on.
Inspiration, inspiration!
She imagined her cousin, sitting next to her in the family cabin, snowed in. How the only entertainment they had was wrestling and drawing with the Crayola markers. They were the kind that only draw on magic paper, so the person stranded in a log cabin with plenty of food but a house full of smelly teenage relatives and twenty-something’s had limited options. Her cousin had been searching for inspiration as well.
She felt a wheel in a complex mechanism click into place as an idea formed in her head.
She remembered her cousin, eyes closed, drawing a random drawing on a piece of the magic Crayola paper. It was only a squiggle, but she had seen it as something different: it took form as a Japanese symbol (although neither knew Japanese at the time), and from the squiggle, the cousin created a picture of a couple, walking in the rain under an umbrella. She never did explain why.
The top piece of paper on the stack in front of the girl was taken off, the rest pushed to the side of the desk. With both bloodshot holes closed tightly shut and legs crossed in hope, she put the red ink pen to the one piece of paper. She waited.
The ink bled through the paper.
She opened her eyes.
Ra-ta-tap-tap, ra-ta-tap-ta—
Her pen beat a steady rhythm on the desk—and then stopped. The ink soaked into the paper and in the paper was a small hole, surrounded by blood-red ink. The door in the far side of the room opened. The wheels clicked and turned.
Attack! she screamed in her mind. The 29 pieces of paper shuddered in fear.
Ra-ta-tap-tap, ra-ta-tap-tap, she wrote on the first line. Who knew firearms could be disguised as pens?
Stories are just as murderous to the writer as they are to the characters, she thought, and wrote her story.