I sit distractedly in my room, looking for a source to relieve my gnawing boredom. The chair I'm in slowly turns as my gaze spins around the room. Something lying on the edge of my desk catches my eye, gleaming in the light coming from my lamp.
I jump up and step toward my desk, tripping over a book on the floor before grabbing my lucky pen and my writing notebook. I grab my foot as pain sets in and hop back to my chair, which I roll from the middle of my room to behind my desk. I think of what to write, what words to paint my thin white canvass with. My hand starts to move pulling together stray thoughts and random details into coherent lines and the page begins to fill with the dark black ink.
I don't know how long I wrote, but when I finally resurfaced, the story was finished. Actually, multiple stories were finished. I peruse the stories wondering where they truly come from. I pick up my pen and place it back on my desk. I put on my jacket and walk to the front door. The stories run through my head as I step out into the pouring rain, which only amplifies the sound bouncing about in my head.