"I want three stories by tomorrow...or you can just forget about you little writing
career." His words swam around in Tom's cluttered mind.
Three Stories.
How could he come up with three stories when he couldn't even come up with one
measly idea? Being a struggling author wasn't always easy. Actually it was never easy. Most of the time, it didn't matter how good you
really were. It was a matter of luck and who you knew. You need to have a good editor and someone who would publish your works. And Alan was both an editor and a publisher for Tom. Sure he was tough at times, but no one told Tom his dream would be easy.
Tom sat in his den, the place he'd always write at, by his wooden desk. On the side
of his desk was a small, metal trash can filled to the rim with crumbled up papers. Stories Tom had started only to discover they were just another crappy idea. He sat above the desk staring down at a blank sheet of notebook paper, a ballpoint pen in his hand, his spectacles slowly sliding down his wrinkled nose. A slight snarl wrapped around his pale lips. Beneath him, he could hear his wife fumbling around in the kitchen cooking them a nice turkey dinner, or perhaps steak. Whatever it was, it filled his thoughts with food, and brought a bit of drool to the corner of his mouth.
"Three stories," Alan's voice echoed in his mind reminding him to get back on task.
He lightly tapped his pen on top of his balding scalp,as he stared up into space.
He reached for his ipod in his pocket. He untangled the tangled mess that were his earbuds and placed them in his ears. Putting his ipod on shuffle, he rested back and tightly shut his eyes.
Thoughts of peace and serenity blocked out the awful noises of pounding that
came from the kitchen. Softly floating on a cloud. he tried to convince himself, getting rid of the stress, the anxiety, and the anger. His wife's face appeared before him in his mind, an evil expression on her face. There was nothing else but black, pitch black. He couldn't see anything but his wife's bitter face. Oh, how he hated it. She lifter her arm revealing a small stack of papers in her hand. The papers had writing on them, and immediately, Tom knew it was his stories. The stories that she never cared about or even bothered to glance at. The other hand also lifted revealing a small, shiny blue lighter, much like the one he had used before he had quit smoking. Her thumb flicked the lighter a few times, as a small flame appeared. She put the flaming lighter underneath the paper, and forced him to watch all his stories, all his ideas, crumble to bits, until there were nothing left but small black ashes.
"No!" He screamed in anger as he ran to his wife. But she soon disappeared,
leaving Tom to sulk all alone in the darkness.

"Tom." The clunking sound of a ceramic plate hitting the wooden desk caused
Tom to awake from his slumber. He looked up from the drool covered desk, wiped his mouth, and stared at his wife standing there in her pink apron. Oh, how he hated that apron. "I brought you food," she said, a smile across her red lips.
Before he could even think, he screamed, "Get out! Get out!" His voice filled
with such bitter hatred. His startled wife quickly did as she was told and was out the door moment later slamming it behind her.
Grinning with content, he turned back to his empty paper, ideas flowing through
his mind. He put the pen down on the paper and started writing.
No one liked her; not even her husband, he started to write, smiling and
laughing down at the paper the whole time.