Henry

Henry Craig sat at a table at the back of the Detroit Public Library Main Branch, bent over a blank sheet of paper. It was cold in this corner, by the large window. Henry was bundled into a hooded sweatshirt, ink stains on the cuffs. He tapped his pen on the table, nothing in his head. No words. No ideas. Nothing.

I’m supposed to be a writer.

He looked up from his page at the shelves and wandering patrons. Of course, sitting at this table every day doing nothing doesn’t really qualify as writing.

Throughout his terrible childhood, as he was passed from one awful foster home to the next, all he’d ever wanted was to read and write. To write like the authors who swept him away from his own pitiful tragedy. He felt their passion as keenly as anyone; he felt the words roaring in his veins. And yet here he sat, nothing but frustrated scribbles on his page—again.

He shoved the page into his tattered backpack and stood, scraping the chair back loudly enough to solicit a harsh, faceless shush from among the stacks. He frowned as he stomped down the stairs and out into the noisy city street.

The cold air hit him like shards of glass, penetrating his thin sweatshirt. He flipped his hood up, pulling it low over his freckled face, and plunged his hands into his pockets.

He was late for the night class he taught at the community college. Creative Writing. Henry shook his head and nearly laughed out loud. True, he nearly had a PhD in creative writing, but that didn’t make him feel like a writer. He wouldn’t feel like a real writer until he could unleash the passionate words trapped inside him. Like an obsessed treasure hunter, he knew they were there somewhere.

He just needed to find a way to dig them up.