Writing A Story
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It was hard to write a story, thought the boy to himself slowly. He needed an idea but what? He smashed his head on a large rock strangely located in a convenient area of his desk. His head started bleeding and he regretted it.
"A Story About Bloo-duh!" he thought to himself. An idea formed in his head and dislocated his brain. After bashing it on a rock to put it back in position, he picked up the pencil and began to write.
"John had tripped and he was bleeding. "IT HURTS!" he exclaimed to his friend, who did not care and was too busy taking his inhaler. He punched Alex in the head. "ALEX! I'M BLEEDING!". Alex fingered the back of his head and felt something wet.
"I'M BLEEDING TOO!" Soon they began punching each other's head and Alex swallowed his inhaler."
This story sucks, exclaimed the boy to himself.
"Maybe I should make a story on dragons and something generic!"
"A Story About Dra-gons!" he thought to himself. An idea began to form in his head, but he quickly lost it so as not to damage his brain anymore.
The knight quickly looked at his field guide and then at the dragon before exclaiming, "You are right! You are a dragon!" He was then killed by a blast of fire which scorched his face and it hurt."
NO, NO, NO! He needed a good idea, maybe something already made. He smiled at the thought of stealing someone's intellectual property.
"Riches Island" he thought to himself, and ideas of plagiarism formed in his head like a brain tumor.
"RICHES ISLAND was owned by a wealthy guy named Short John Sliver. He lived in a house. One day some random crew came to find his riches so he shot them all down."
He needed something exciting and fast-paced, kind of like taking drugs but not that fast-paced.
Chapter 2[edit | edit source]
It was the start of something new.
A new story.
He actually had a good idea, it was a story about a guy who had to fight drug addiction.
"John struggled every day. And night."
The perfect opening line. He carried on.
"And evening. And midday. And noon. And other intervals of time."
The perfect second line. He carried on.
"And intervals of time were like hours, especially if the intervals of time were hours."
Makes sense. He carried on.
"A second seemed like an hour, although it was a second."
And the final sentence of his opening paragraph. It had to be good.
"Struggling is hard."
No, scratch that.
"Struggling was a problem."
NO, SCRATCH THAT.
"Or maybe that was cause his watch broke."
"He needed medicine."
He scribbled down the rest into the perfect story, and now he needed a title.
Chapter 3[edit | edit source]
He came up with a list.
- Drugs (too non-fiction like)
- Don't Do Drugs (too advertising like)
- DON'T! (too emphasizing)
- Struggles Of A Boy (perfect)
He handed in the complete story to his class and eagerly waited for his results and kept bouncing up and down his seat.
Someone slipped a thumbtack on it and he soon felt like going to the toilet, but would he miss his grade if he went?
I have an idea! About a boy who knows there is a killer waiting for him in the toilet!
No, too perverted.
He eagerly waited, the seconds drawing closer like death and began to read it out in his mind...
The Story[edit | edit source]
Struggles Of A Boy
John struggled every day. And night. And evening. And midday. And noon. And other intervals of time. And intervals of time were like hours, especially if the intervals of time were hours. A second seemed like an hour, although it was a second. He needed medicine.
The doctor felt like an grave-keeper, except he wasn't, but he felt like one, although he wasn't. Eagerly waiting for his medicine, he amused himself with fantasies of knights, and people who thought there were murderers in the toilet. Or maybe that was just his delirium caused by the drugs.
DRUGS? How had he gotten himself into drugs? No, technically that wasn't true. A dug is too small to fit into. But he knew what he meant. And he meant something. And that something was drugs. Oh yes, the reminiscent flashback. It came like a sharp jolt. A cold sharp jolt. A very cold sharp jolt. Okay, he said to himself, maybe not as cold as an ice cube but as cold as lukewarm water. He remembered about the man. The man with the happy smiling face and the catchy slogan.
What was it again? Oh yes, "Hey kiddies". What a catchy slogan for catching kids in a catchy way, he said to himself catchily. He remembered the conversation, although vaguely. A vague conversation that was remembered vaguely. The man had said his slogan and he had replied, "Hey personies" and the man said "Hey kiddies wanna buy some druggies", and he had said "Hey personies okay what are these druggies by the wayies?" And he had replied "Hey kiddies want them or notties?" and he had said "Hey personies fine thennies". And then he had gotten into a struggle. A struggle of the fitness.
And the coughing and the hacking and the coughing blood and the hacking blood and the forum trolling came. Like an addiction, but deadlier. Like a deadly addiction except deadlier cause it was a deadlier addiction. He did not like the part where he coughed blood. So he got medicine and it was prescribed to take twice a day and the medicine was prescribed to him. Like a letter except healthier. Like a healthy letter except healthier cause it was a healthier addiction.
Still the struggles remained and the boy thought to himself if he would die, but if he would then he wouldn't be thinking these thing, but taking medicine overdoses to prevent it. And the boy did just that. That, the boy had just did. He overdosed himself and overdosed his body, which then overdosed himself. And he went into an overdose forever. The echo of silence and one word which went on.
But he did not know that word for he was dead and dead people tell no tales.
The Conclusion[edit | edit source]
Time ticked as he finished his story with bravado and brava. Which was made from dough. He ate a cookie and choked on it. He needed water and the fountain was near the toilet. A ticking timer went off like a bomb and he checked the time and the delusional feeling came back and he said to himself why he had delusional feelings even though he didn't, but then he said to himself, WHAT WERE THESE DELUSIONAL FEELINGS? OR WHAT ARE THEY IF I AM TO BE PROPERLY GRAMMATORIZED?
Hey, is that a word? He had a new story. One about a boy who made up a word…
He smiled to himself and other people slowly moved away from him.