Waiting and Writing

Oliver sat in bed, waiting. Waiting, waitng. It took much too long. Normally this time went by too fast, he had no time to talk to the others before Lights Out was cried and talking forbidden. But now he wanted it to happen more than ever.

Waiting for everyone to fall asleep, Oliver squirmed even more. Finally he heard the sound of footsteps down the hall, saw the brief, scanning light of a gaurd’s flashlight through closed lids. He waited a little longer, listening for other orphans laying in beds all around him.

Eventually he felt that it was ok. He reached under the matress and found his treasure, pulled it out.

His fingers greedily ran over the leather, opened the book, ran over the old paper within. Then he readied the pen, bringing it over the book. The ‘Dear Diary’ would be his now, Oliver’s diary.

Dear Diary he began, keeping true to the cover of the book.

My name is Oliver. I found you under my bed last night. I had to write in you. You’re the only book I’ve ever seen.

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