Writers Write, Right? (Pencil)

This is in the vein of writers write.

There isn't much in regular everyday life to tell about these days. It's summer. We are doing summer things. We are taking time off and time out of the regular. We are gearing up for adoption day. 

Personally, I'm spending a large piece of my time in the dentist chair. I'm only mostly bitter about this.

We will go back to writers write. August can be a month of daily writing. It can be a month of drafts and stories and ideas. It can be a month of playing around with thoughts. August may be the time of planning and scheming which thought will become the November novel idea. September and October are already spoken for in the writer plan. 

Pencil

All the pieces were in place. Sitting on the table in the glow of the afternoon sun was a brand new journal and a sharp pencil. The pages were clean and crisp. None of the corners were softened yet by the constant brush of her arm as the words covered the pages.

She knew that by the end of the journal the pages would have a different feel. The clear blue lines would be gone under the scratches of words. The words would run across, page after page, slipping gently from crisp, sharp black lines to soft gray smudges.

Then she would sharpen her pencil again and the shock of black would assault the pages again for a while.

The slow fade from black to gray repeating over and over again in the pages of the journal would echo the ebb and flow of the stories she would tell.

Slowly she began.

A small gray etch 
On the side of the paper

More a smudge than a heart
And yet

There it is
A little smear of love

In truth 
The whole page is smeared

Smudged with

doubt

Thoughts thought 
Then erased

Feelings felt
And then rubbed out

All the sharp lines
Of words defined

Gone

Smoothed out
Blurred and softened

The lines
The words

From freshly sharp tip 
To worn nub

Black to gray

She stopped for a moment. Sat, pencil in hand, stared into the sun and realized the thought was gone. She put her pencil down, closed her journal and knew it was done.

Blind Spot

...Trifecta Challenge

She flew out the front door, shrieking and arms flailing.  Inside her car, flying through the burbs, she was still screaming out her blind rage.  They should just listen to her and do what she tells them to do.
She never saw the cement truck.
Lying, silenced by tubes, in a hospital bed, she was alone.  There was nothing for her to do, but think over the tumult of her life, steadily cultivating a bitter gnawing anger.
By the time the tubes were coming out, she was on a steady diet of hate.  She had lists of how and why she loathed each and every person in her life.
There were the casual acquaintances that had somehow slighted her with words or actions.  She had her husband that failed moment after moment to rise up to her unspoken whims.  There were those she once called friends but they had let her down when they failed her drama demands.  Churches just simply never came close to measuring up.  The children’s teachers and coaches were unorganized incompetents.  The children themselves gave her nothing but fleeting seconds of near pleasure or happiness.  Her office simply couldn’t function if she wasn’t there.
Able to sit up now, she flipped through the paper, reeling at all the stupid people and their bad behavior.  Tossing it down on the bed, she noticed the date.
According to the paper, she had been lying in this bed for weeks, not hours.
No one had been to see her or called to get the schedules and instructions from her to keep her life running. How could they possibly know what to do or where to go without her?
This was a classic example of how they couldn’t do anything without her, she thought, growling and dialing her office, and where was that damn doctor, he had only just shook his head at her when she demanded to be released.