The Scribbler in the Attic

The house was quiet. Outside, the dog wagged its rubbery tail on the porch, sending banging echoes cascading across the valley known to the family that lived there as Howard Hollow. A wind gusted along the Hollow floor. A girl stood on the front porch of the log house that was nestled firmly in the hillside. Her brown hair flew everywhere in the wind. She was wearing bright, plaid socks that rose to her knees, and she didn't care. Another gust of wind hacked at her clothing. This girl was a writer, and loved it.

She sighed happily, taking in the peaceful moment. The rest of her family had driven off to the neighbors' and she was home alone. It was rare and hard to come by quiet moments like this.

Hurrying, she whirled around from gazing out across the valley and entered the house with a creak and groan of the door hinges. She sped up the half-log stairs, which were placed directly in front of the door, bounding onto the loft above. To her right was the door to her room. It was the attic. She entered it quickly and looked around. Four beds were placed strategically around the very small room, leaving enough floor space to do push-ups on. At the far end, her bed was squished into the corner; a simple mattress sagging atop an old bed-frame.

Underneath it, she knew there to be mounds of paper, a microphone, some drawing pencils, and her bow and arrows. This was her corner. Her little attic to write in. This was the place where her stories took form. This was where she wrote nearly every page of her every book. Turning the fan on low, she skipped across the room and plopped onto her bed. It's frame creaked in protest. Quickly, she grabbed the peacock-blue computer, which sat at the end of the bed amongst the tangled, unamde bed sheets and blankets. Flipping the screen up, she set her hands on the keys and began to type out her story...