Another morning writing exercise.

It was dark and the only light came from the glow of the computer monitor. JB was seated and the sound of fingers tapping on the keyboards filled the lightless room mixed with the soft humming of his old CPU. With each beat of the keyboard, the sounds grew heavy until JB was no longer typing but beating his clenched fists on the varnished wooden table. Pain shot from his fists to his head telling him to stop but he didn’t. He needed the pain. He pushed the table hard and his swivel chair rolled away until it hit the other end of the square room. He sat cross-legged on top of the chair as his eyes stared at the computer screen and the opened word processor and the garbage words written on it.

This wouldn’t do! Wouldn’t do at all! He shouted in his head (for it wouldn’t be good to wake the others).

JB stood up and breathed in and breathed out. He then found himself pacing the room—from end to end, up the walls and to the ceiling and back down the floor. This wouldn’t do.

He walked to the open window and stared at the sky looking for some inspiration, some answers. He saw no clouds, no stars, and no moon. Strange, he thought. JB’s eyes grew wide as his vision moved from the sky and down to the ground. There, he saw, stood rows upon rows of streetlamps. Each lamp was different—one had a hunchback pole, while the other one stood straight and proud, one had a thick, fat pole, while the one after it was so thin you’d have to wonder how it was able to support the weight of the lamp. This isn’t my town. Where am I? JB’s heartbeat quickened. He slowly walked away from the window. He turned around and ran to the door, opened it, and got outside.

Darkness. Utter and complete darkness embraced JB the moment he got out of his room. The darkness was so thick that he couldn’t even see his hands in front of him. He turned around but the door was gone, in place of it he felt a wall with a rough and uneven surface. What’s happening here? JB turned around and started walking with his hands stretched out before him. Minutes passed, hours, days probably. He wanted to run but run where? No. Running’s a bad idea. The sound of his feet running might wake the others, he didn’t want that (for it wouldn’t be good to wake the others). He continued to walk forward.

JB finally reached the end of the corridor. His hands were feeling something smooth and hard—a door made of plastic. He searched for the knob and twisted it open. JB quickly got inside.

He was met with a familiar sound—the soft humming of his old CPU. He didn’t notice it but his palms were sweaty and his hair was matted to his face with sweat. He wanted to shout but he didn’t (for it wouldn’t be good to wake the others). Instead, JB breathed in and breathed out and he calmed himself. He grabbed his swivel chair and sat down in front of the computer desk. I know what to do, he said smiling wide. He deleted every word on the page and his fingers started typing on the keyboard:

“It was dark and the only light came from the glow of the computer monitor.”