The number two Ticonderoga pencil of Jackson Randolph traveled quickly across his trademark yellow legal pad. It was his preference to write his books by hand, he felt that typewriters and computers were too "easy" and "not true writing" as he'd very publically like to say, but he has a point. Judging by Randolph's three young adult bestsellers on Amazon, you could say he had a winning formula. He had everything an aspiring author would ever want.
Randolph studied his work closely, and sighed deeply. The all too familiar scent of graphite filled his nostrils. His breaths echoed throughout the halls of his grand, empty estate. He brought the pad closer to his face, then threw it down on the desk in disgust.
"A good day's work. Done." Jackson told himself.
The esteemed writer then lumbered off to bed, pulled up the covers, then sighed deeply once more. Another all too familiar feeling.
Morning arrived and the sun seeped through the window of Randolph's ostentatious bedroom. He awoke, struggling to sit up, and walked over to his bathroom.
The mirror greeted him like his own worst enemy. Staring at himself, he wondered what was left. Wondering who he was.
"Who am I? What am I doing?"
Those words became all too familiar.
After Jackson's methodical routine of coffee and oatmeal, he walked out of his estate to drive downtown.
His phone buzzed.
Meeting with agent. 10 AM.
Maybe today was the day he would end his writing career. He'd tell his agent that he couldn't do it anymore. He hated his work, it wasn't his. However, he never had the strength to let go of what was once considered his dream. Jackson always wanted to be a writer. He received rejection after rejection from every publishing company you could imagine, until a small house gave him a chance. After that chance, he took off, but that's when things changed.
His creativity declined. His drive died. His dream wasn't realized.
Today was the day his career would end.
Jackson climbed into his silver Hyundai Sonata and began to drive down the long winding road from his estate, wondering how his departure would shake up the young adult fantasy genre. He had planned for his series to be five books, and he was only through three. The series would never be finished, but he couldn't carry on being someone else for any longer.
Randolph had finally made it into town and stopped at an intersection.
Red light.
The light turned green and Jackson began to press his foot against the gas pedal and accelerated into the intersection.
Black.
"Agh…"
Jackson screamed out in pain. He couldn't remember much of anything that happened, but he was now lying on the warm asphalt of a California intersection, yet he couldn't move. He attempted to squirm free of the wreckage, but realized he was caught.
His hand, his writing hand, was being crushed by the weight of the car. He suddenly realized the implications of this predicament and attempted to break free to no avail. No matter how hard he pushed, pulled or squirmed, his hand couldn't be free of the silver Sonata's weight.
"I'm going to die here today. One way, or another."
Black.
Jackson awoke once more in a bed in a clean hospital. He could hear the heart monitor beeping in the background and realized what had happened.
"My hand…"
Jackson sat up and frantically rustled his arm free from underneath the covers to see the end of his arm wrapped in gauze. He couldn't move his fingers, if he still had any.
A doctor, tall and sporting a white smock, walked calmly into the room and approached Jackson closely. He opened his mouth and spoke in the most elegant and calm tone.
"Mr. Randolph. I'm sorry to say that due to the wreckage and the weight of the vehicle on top of your hand, we were forced to remove your fingers. We couldn't risk the possibility of infection, and the bones were so crushed there was no other alternative. I'm so sorry."
A hallowing silence pursed throughout Randolph's small, emblematic tomb.
"We have counseling available should you need it."
The doctor exited the room, not asking any more questions, or relaying any more news.
"Why… why has this happened to me? What did I do to deserve this? Why?"
Jackson cried out in a melancholy scream, examining the roles of tan gauze around his hand. He thought maybe he could just leave them there, never have to look at his hand or his arm.
"Have to write… Have to find a way…"
Jackson found his number two Ticonderoga pencil, the same on he always used and picked up his yellow legal pad. He grasped the pencil with his left hand, situating it to where it was comfortable, and attempted to write a few sentences.
I've missed this.
I've missed this.
I've missed this.
He repeated the same sentence over, and over again in a fashion that could only be described as jagged and messy. The words somehow didn't form in his mind like they used to.
He studied his messy work closely, observing his reflection once again. He made a fist with the pencil in hand, whitening his knuckles.
The pencil then snapped in two, and the crack forever echoed through his ears.
