A habit I have is pacing about when ideas, events, stories, and scenes are stuck in my head. A friend suggested I write about how I write stories and my habit. I do take requests by the way, and if it’s just a suggestion, I’ll still probably take it after I’m out of ideas.

So anyways, scenes stick ferociously in my mind, and pacing about helps. Back at home, I would pace about every room in tight circles, and perform laps around the house while I thought about my thoughts that I like to thought so much.

But here at the dorms, there’s just a single hallway. Actually it connects to two more corridors but I usually don’t take them.So I just pace back and forth in that single hallway.

Sometimes people leave the hallway window open. I can see why; I leave my window open too since the outside air smells so much nicer than the air inside.

There’s a large, heavyset iron door at the end of the hallway. I described it a lot more cooler than it really is. Just imagine a normal, metal door.

So when I was typing this story and pacing about in the hallway, I realized I felt a breeze. I checked the window, but it turns out, it was iron door. A refreshingly sweet but old draft wafted out of the door (if that smell makes any sense at all).

I approached the door, and an old man, who assumed to be the janitor was inside, was refilling a bottle with soap.

I stepped into the dark room, and my foot hit something on the floor, which created a weird echoing chime.

The old man spun around and shouted, “DIGDOGGER HATES CERTAIN KIND OF SOUND.”


Feel free to reply. But I won't read cuz I'm shy. Unless it's haiku.

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