A Really Weird Story
Cynthia sat at her computer, basking in the blue glow of her personal bleaching booth, AKA a screen. Her hands poised over the keyboard, prepared to release a symphony of erratic clicking that accompany typing a story. Around her, in the small room set aside for creative output, were the remains of many a late night: crumpled wrappers lay near the trash can, reference books teetered in excessively tall piles next to her desk, and pages of notes taken on whatever she happened to think of at the moment were scattered by the computer on the worn metal desk. Blinking away her sleep, she concentrated on her major problem of the moment: she had absolutely no idea what to write about. She glanced out the smudged window, looking four floors down to the greasy ally below, full of deep shadows cast by the setting sun. A homeless man was sprawled against a dumpster, covered in a cardboard box.
Poor man, maybe I can write a touching story about someone like him. Nah, to cliché.