Just something short. That was what the teacher said, just write a short story. Shower it in description, parade it in imagery. But make it short. So what if we didn't know what to write? How to shower and parade? So then my teacher looked at my class. Just write what you see, what you think, to gain ideas, that'll help you start. Draw some doodles, dot down some sentences, it all helps.

So I look at my page, and I take her advice, I write what I see, what I think.

It's raining outside, I don't like rain. It splatters down against my head as I walk. Leaving behind small droplets of glitter, shining against my hair. I can see the rain washing against the lemon tree, catching in the leaves till they collapse under the weight. The trunk's gone dark with the wet bark, drawing lighter green into the leaves. There's no lemons, because it's summer now. I don't like summer; it's too hot and stuffy. I spend my hours grazing in front of the fan, moving as it swings its neck. The sun just beats down, once a saviour, now a monster, ringing down onto my sweating body. And in the summer, I need new clothes, a jumper isn't acceptable. Style comes in; from track pants to short skirts; forcing my wallet to empty. But I don't keep my money in a wallet, it stays in my tin. A tin for some once desired biscuit. The tin lies rounded on my desk, the lid lightly placed on top; in case a hurry needs me to reach and grab some change. It is just money though. Cool sheets of colour, a person's face placed gallantly on one side, maybe another luckily on the other. I don't even know who these people are. Maybe once heroes or just fluked attendants to a gruesome time. The time, 4:23. The clock ticks with an unnoticeable smoothness, sliding its hand over the painted numbers. Even though each second is one less I have, I know I'm not wasting time. Even though I spend hours wasting my precious days, I know now I'm not wasting it. And I know this for the one sole reason. I'm enjoying it. My ink glides over the paper, forming words as they inconsistently come to mind. Splutters suggest where I've paused, where my words have become stuck in my head, tangling to come out. But the words that end up on paper, they are full of my enjoyment, of my un-wasted seconds.

I look at what I've written, my random scribbles on the page. My attempt to bring to mind a story. And then, as I stare at my words, I realise I have a story. Here there is the story of my mind, of what I see, of what I think. Here is my story, and I made it short. A story doesn't need a long complicated plot, it just needs to be words with a voice. So my insane mutterings, my handwritten scrawls, they are my story. With that I make the final note to any written story. At the top, in my messy scratch, I place the title on. My Story.