Clouds gargle and release rain which patters downward onto her broken house. Through dusty curtains, she can see water slipping against the window panes. She has been here a long long time, waiting. Waiting too long. 

She curls herself into a corner of the room. The walls are white, the floors are white, all she sees is white. She looks towards her hands--no rosy pink undertones, no warmth.

Plastic is covering the bed, the dresser, and the floor. It crinkles under her toes, no longer cold to her. The room looks sterile, it reminds her of the hospital. Her brain throbs--it hurts to think about it. She thinks of something else--laughter.

She remembers the laughter. Laughter followed by footsteps thumping down the hallway, into the master bedroom, and onto the large fluffy bed. She remembers planting kisses onto her fathers cheek. A rosy cheek that bellowed out deep chuckles and whispered "I love you kiddo".

The prickles of her fathers beard still itch against her skin. She touches her cheek. So cold. She wonders how long it will rain as she remembers the sounds of laughter. She looks towards the white dusty door, cracked, barely open. Her hand trembles--and she reaches for the knob. Where is the laughter?

Deep within the crevasses of books, within the curls of grass blades, within the folds of jean pockets, lives tiny, tiny fanged creatures. 

They are mostly shades of gray, fluffed to look like dust—but sometimes, a gritty brown to mimic dirt. They cling to students, and teachers. Tiny eyes, hidden by tufts of fur, never blink. These creatures are eager to devour their pray—pencil erasers. 

As they get closer to their prey, fangs click with excitement. They will suck each eraser dry—Yet, students never weary, teachers never stop, mistakes are allowed to be made. 

Nothing can stop pure written creativity.