“Don’t break the pen or everything will end.” An old man said.
The boy kept those words in his mind, treasuring every letter it had. As he kept walking toward his stairs of gold and his diamond house, he went to his desk and began to write for another noteworthy piece.
His phone rang and he answered it. His publisher said his book would take some time to publish and the boy didn’t take it lightly. His jaw tightened and he slammed the phone at the white walls of his room. He shouted; his voice laced with pure rage.
He picked his pen up and continued writing. At one point, his pen snapped and blotches of red inks scattered along the white sheets of papers. He stopped and slowly inhaled.
Before him, he saw how the red inks continued to flow against him until he saw his self, falling below his once diamond house and onto the real soiled ground of his reality.