I sat at my table in my dining room one evening. I was 10 years old.

My skin shined with sweat that was cascading from my forehead past my chiseled jawline.

My hair frizzled with the rising humidity while my ears were soothed with the crickets performing their nightly melodies of the summer season. My eyes were trained on the lined pages of my black and white marble notebook.

It was empty.

My right hand tightened its grip on my wooden #2 pencil while my left hand was glued to the table. I knew I had to go to bed at some point, but my thoughts were like tangled webs in the walls of my mind.

My emotions were like a car being powered with a key. I felt the ignition. My mind was going into drive and the sharpened tip of my pencil made its first mark on the margin line.

I started to write.

Marks became replaced with letters that transformed into words that were formed into paragraphs. The book became my canvas as I painted on each page with words. I captured my world and took it out of my body.

I was able to do whatever I wanted, I was able to control the story, and I was able to create my own endings. I wasn’t just a reader anymore, and it was exhilarating.

The clock struck midnight and I no longer had any pages to write. I placed my pencil on the table and I let my back sink on the chair I was perched on. I grabbed my book and skimmed through every crevice. It was filled.

I went to bed that night filled with exuberance, I already knew this wouldn’t be the last time I would want to write a story.

Today, I still write my stories.

The joy continues to live in me as I study Creative Writing in college. Now I share these stories with you.

This blog has short and concise original fiction stories that you can access from your fingertips. I hope that every story will take you to a world outside of your own, even if it’s just for a quick time. Here is my blog Reading in a Flash.

Rochelle Estrada

Writer and Editor

RochelleEstrada04@gmail.com