The Writer (an ohshc ff)

The warm mid-afternoon breeze danced through the open window, carrying the laughter of the children playing under the harsh sun into the small space of the room. It was a hot Florida day; with temperatures remaining stagnant in the upper nineties and nearly scraping the hundred mark, the residents of Jacksonville falling victim to a nasty heatwave.

The white fan purring in the corner was more noisy than it was effective.

However, despite the hellish temperature, we see a boy clad in a black pullover hoodie, a pair of denim jeans, and a beanie, sweating profusely as he bent over a laptop siting on a desk perpendicular to a twin bed.

He bobbed his head to the R&B that flooded through his headphones as he stared at the familiar blankness of an untouched microsoft word document. The flashing black line taunted him as the document waited to be filled with the fruits of his talent once more.

He took his nimble fingers and placed them to the keys.

'Black Boy in Japan - Solomon Malik Pressman'

Not a very intricate title, but its simplicity held significant value.

Memories instantly struck him, reeling in front of his eyes like a fast-paced coming of age movie, faces of people whom he may never see again plaguing his mind, accompanied with the image of a very, unsightly pink building.

He grimaced, not only at the thought of the atrocious structure, but at a face the stood out among the rest, and he stared at the framed photo on the corner of his desk, his permanent frown unwavering.

"Kiss, kiss, fall in love," he said sarcastically to himself with the roll of his eyes, bitterness dusting his tone.

He tore his eyes away from the photograph and placed them back onto the screen.

And, He Writes.

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rewrite of 'the writer' a book published on my old account