“Creation,” by Robert Leabo
In a dimly lit room with one lamp over head, a large man sat furiously scribbling away. At his feet lie crinkled and crumpled sheets of paper.
“Damn it!” he cried as he banged his powerful fists on the desk. It shook. Below, on earth, it started to thunder. “It’s just not good enough.” He ripped out yet another piece of paper from the notebook and crushed it in his palm. He threw it on the floor. “It has to be perfect,” he said into the darkened room. The lamp, his only colleague, flickered above. He tapped the bulb with his finger. It steadied. “Now then,” he continued, “What will I do to the characters?” He tapped his pencil on the desk. He wrote some more, then paused. “No,” he said and erased. He swept the shavings on the ground. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “I know what to do.” He wrote until his hand cramped up. He stopped. “Hmm,” he pondered. “I don’t like these characters. How can I get rid of them?” He bit his fingernails as his mind wandered. He looked over at his bed. His eyes widened. There was a poster plastered on the wall. It was of Mars. “WAR!” he exclaimed. He gritted his teeth and continued to write.”Perfect,” he said as a serene smile formed on his face.
“I’ve completed it. My magnum opus,” he said and held the manuscript up as if it were being honored. As he read the story, the effects were felt below. Suddenly, however, as he read it over, he became unsure. “What’s going to happen next?” he asked himself as he returned the script to its home. “I wonder…”
That’s a story that has yet to be written.
He finished by signing his name.
He sighed, turned off the lamp, and walked outside.
First Haiku, by Robert Leabo
walk around campus
seeing the cigarette butts
semester is here