Writing Element Novels & Stories

Eli’s fingers trembled as he set down his pen. The page before him was filled with half-formed sentences, words crossed out so heavily the paper had nearly torn. He’d been trying to write a letter—to Julian, to himself, maybe even to the universe—but the thoughts refused to line up neatly. They spilled out messy, raw, jagged.

She says as she smiles. “Good luck babe!” I say. “Thanks...” Alaia says as she smiles. I walk to my workplace and lean on the seat. I inhale deeply and stare at the computer screen. I have no inspiration today “Uggghhhhh…..” I groan as I keep thinking for 30 minutes, then I got something on my head. I write my first sentence on the computer and finish the article in hours. I send the article to Lena’s email. And I got a text from Lena after that “Let’s make it happen! Lol X Lena”

As soon as the last one left, I slammed the door so hard the windowpanes rattled. I marched to my desk, legs trembling, chest heaving. My eyes scanned the surface until I spotted a scroll—the first one I saw. I grabbed it, unrolled it, and with steady hands, began to write. The words poured out as if they had a life of their own. As if they were drawn straight from my pain. “To the Zamora Family in the capital. To my uncle, the border general, and my cousin, Commander August Zamora…” I wrote each line like I was stabbing the heart of fate itself.

It was a simple message, but it filled me with a sense of excitement and anticipation. "Be ready and come down. I'm waiting for you at the breakfast table." The words were written in a neat, flowing script with a smiley face at the end, and I could almost picture the person who had written them. I knew exactly who it was, and the thought of making the face was almost too unbelievable.

I tell Lena I will do it. She asks if I am sure. I tell her I have never been more sure of anything. I sit in the dark. Eleanor sleeps. The fire burns low. The tree glows. I take out my phone. I open a blank document. I stare at the cursor blinking on the screen. My voice. My words. My story. I begin to write.

Elena said, and without another word, the assistant turned and left, closing the door softly behind her. Silence settled in Elena’s office, and she remained in the chair for several long minutes, breathing hard, staring at the blank document on her screen. Eventually the raw edge of the anger dulled into something colder and more useful. She pulled the laptop closer and began to type. At first, the words came in short, angry bursts, but then the pace changed, and her fingers moved faster as she stopped deleting every other sentence, and just kept typing away. Ideas that had refused to form for days suddenly arranged themselves into rough structure—funding mechanisms, phased implementation, r

awerfadf: "I'll send you the outline in a bit. Can you write 10,000 words for me daily?" awerfadf: "Sent you the outline. Check it." awerfadf: "Check the outline, dear." awerfadf: "????" awerfadf: "An hour has passed. Are you there, sis?" awerfadf: "If you're there, just reply!!" awerfadf: "If the price is too low, I can increase it!" awerfadf: "Please don’t run away on me!! I'm begging you!!"

Ninety-nine point seven percent. Half-sibling. I look at the result for a long time. Then I open a new document and I begin typing, not for the piece, not for publication, just for myself, the way I have been writing since I was ten years old, using the act of putting words in order as a way of putting thoughts in order.

Freedom didn’t take much room. The note took longer. I sat at Gavin’s desk, the scent of cedar and parchment heavy around me. His pen still held a trace of ink from the morning’s work. I dipped it and wrote in quick, small strokes. I need air. I’ll come back. Don’t follow me. My handwriting wavered near the end. I pressed my thumb against the ink, smudging the words. Maybe it made them truer. I folded the note once and placed it under the wolf’s head paperweight he loved. He’d find it later — maybe too late to stop me, maybe just in time to understand.

But these past few days had been enough to make her understand that everything she had assumed was under her control could be taken away with just a wave of her grandfather's hand. Mr. Wilson held a large calligraphy brush, dipped it in ink, and wrote the character for "endurance" on paper.