TODO: Write a Book About…
TODO: Write a book about a character in some situation. Modern day society fiction about some guy just trying to get by. He more or less succeeds in whatever it is that he’s up to, but slightly odd things happen to him from time to time. These start to bother him more and more, until he finally can’t think of anything but what is going on. He starts to notice that even things he wasn’t previously bothered by seem to have a sinister undertone. The man at the grocery store checkout glares at him as he is leaving. The cashier smirks and bobs his head in a condescending way. The room spins. And then suddenly he steps outside and everything seems back to normal. The sun is shining, a bird flies by. Cars start driving as the stop light turns green. For the moment, he’s just a guy standing in a store parking lot. Chest pounding, he takes a deep shaky breath. And chuckles to himself. All in my head, he thinks. I need to get some rest — I’ve been working too hard. He begins to walk home with his groceries. The crosswalk changes to walk. As he steps down into the street a truck’s tires screech as it swerves into the other lane, running the red light and nearly hitting him. As the truck roars down the road, the passenger lazily reaches out their arm, middle finger extended. He quickly collects his groceries from where they have dropped with shaking hands. He waits until the next light turns and scurries across the street, darting glances in both directions. He nervously hurries home, avoiding the eyes of anyone around. The keys are fumbly and hard to hold, and it takes a minute to open the door. He steps inside and the door slams shut with a thin, reedy sound. It’s hollow. He locks the door, but it’s no comfort. Setting the battered groceries carefully on the counter, he collapses over the sink and takes a long drink of water. It’s not cold, and tastes of metal and chlorine, but it’s better than the reality outside. He splashes some on his face and fumbles for the kitchen towel, finding it easily within arm’s reach. Everything is within arm’s reach in the kitchen. He wipes the last of the water from his face, but it still feels wet and cool. The groceries are sitting on the counter waiting, but he ignores them. He walks to the small table where the remnants of breakfast lie next to the beat up laptop — a hand-me-down from his uncle. It is his prized possession. It whines pathetically as he turns it on. He turns around and goes to get himself a glass of water. It’s going to be a few minutes. Finally a beep sounds; it’s ready.
He sits down and begins to write, “My name is Khalib, and this is my story…”