The Box(3)

Without any notice, the white-yellow sunshine shift to the left by one inch. Babazuka’s finger is flying on the keyboard. He said. “Ok, the first page is done, nine more to go.” and he pats his cheeks softly twice. However, Babazuka stop. His stream of ideas was cut off. He couldn't write anything that can be count as a story. I understand that art comes from life, but how could he write a story without going through enough life experience. He such an ordinary man that he was born in a small happy family. His father is an office worker and gets paid at an average salary. And his mother has a little cake shop that doing just fine, most of the customers are either neighbors or friends. Their living is almost like clockwork. Father goes the work at nine in the morning and mom’s store opens at six-thirty in the morning. Babazuka seldom goes out and plays with his friend. In fact, I don’t think he has any friends at all.

Babazuka mumbles to himself: “This is ridiculous, How am I suppose to write such a long story.” He closes the lid of the laptop as fast as he can. He slides his whole body onto his chair until the chair is touching his back. All of sudden, he pushes himself up and goes over to his two-door cabinet, take a deep breath, opens the door slowly as they were made of heavy stone, even though it’s made of light plywood. Babazuka takes out a big paper bag. He jogs back to the table. And he lay the bag onto his leg, lifts out a translucent glass cube from the paper bag.