George sat at his desk. He had been sitting behind the plain metal-framed, glass top structure for the better part of the last two hours intently looking at his computer screen. On the illuminated LCD display sat his text editing program, open to a blank page. The black line indicating a new text input sat hesitantly waiting to move towards the right and reveal the words that were stuck somewhere in George’s mind. It blinked, almost taunting George in only a way that an inanimate object with no concept of writer’s block could.
                George leaned back in his high-back chair. The rocking mechanism underneath him squealed loudly as he did so, almost as if it wanted to stay in the stationary sitting position. Even his chair conspired against him as he sat there, fingers poised over his ergonomic wireless keyboard, trying to put his thoughts in to actual, physical words. He pushed himself back from his desk, stood up and stretched his arms above his head. Twisting from side to side he stretched out his lower back then bent down slightly to reach as far down as he could towards his toes. Despite having the appearance of being physically fit, George was the complete opposite.  He was not very flexible, would get winded by trying to walk up the stairs to his third floor apartment, and even had a hard time getting out of his car. He had no idea that during the next month his life would be completely flipped around and he would be riding a bicycle around the city, but right now he was only focused on that blinking black line on the white abyss that filled his computer’s twenty-one inch monitor.
                “This is stupid.” He said to no one in particular. George lived alone. His apartment was modest in size for someone who was single and had a steady income. However, it was not extravagantly furnished. A solitary couch sat in the middle of the large living area, accompanied by one end table that held a single lamp, a few books, and the remote to his television. Against the wall in front of the couch was a simple wooden entertainment stand. Nothing to spectacular about it. In fact, it appeared that George had gotten the dark brown stand second hand. It was scratched, dented, and on the front left corner was a spot of green paint where it looked like it had been rubbed against a door frame. That was the only spec of the jaded color in George’s entire abode other than a couple of tee shirts and one tie, but none of those would leave such a mark on the dark lacquered finish of the solid wooden stand. On top of the stand was his television set. If anybody were to enter George’s apartment, they would first see his computer desk and the tall black tower on the floor, connected to a large, glowing LCD monitor and a nice set of contemporary speakers. However, if they were to look to their right they would see an old gray box-style television set sitting on top of the weathered table top. It was clearly not one of the new high-definition television sets that everybody else seemed to have, and this did not bother George one bit. Instead, he was perfectly content with his cathode ray tube picture and square-framed images. He would have friends comment that he needed to upgrade. His next door neighbor, Chris, would often state that George was still living in the stone age of television, even though George’s set was color and not the old black and white boxes from the 1950’s. There were no plants, no colorful shades, and no pictures hanging on the walls. It was painfully obvious that George lived alone and had been living alone since moving in. Despite not having any company, George still found he would comment out loud on things. Although there was nobody there to hear his complaint, comment, or witty remark it still made him feel better.
                He walked towards his kitchen. The open floor plan of his apartment allowed for an unobstructed view of his living area, computer, and television from behind the marble topped nook which jutted out from the wall which formed part of his bathroom’s perimeter. He stepped behind the counter top and opened the door on his plain white refrigerator. The door popped open with the sharp crack of expanding plastic as the magnetic seal around the frame gave way to the force being applied to the black-trimmed handle on the front. Inside the cold box a light instantly illuminated, allowing George to see inside the one dark shelter which housed his food and drinks. Sitting on the bottom shelf was a collection of cans, each one blue with a silver top and the distinctive red, white, and blue Pepsi icon on the side. George grabbed one of the cans and shut the door he was holding open. The door closed loudly with a thud and the rattling of various glass and plastic bottles which were sitting in the shelves on the inside of the door. The motion of the door closing caused one of the papers attached to the front by a small round magnet to come loose. The magnet dropped suddenly to the floor and came to a clattering halt against the black and white laminate while the paper fluttered lightly in the air before coming to a rest on the far side of the small kitchen space against the base of the plain white cabinets. George sighed, set his Pepsi can on the counter and bent down to pick up the piece of paper and the magnet. He looked at the paper briefly before putting it back up on the front of his refrigerator, holding it in place once more by the magnet that had just so willingly failed him. As he let go of the magnet, it once again dropped to the floor and clattered against the tiles.
                “Really?” George said bending over once more to pick up the plastic circle, still holding the slip of paper in his other hand.
                As he picked the magnet up again he flipped it over in his hand to look at the back. Where there once was the black magnet that would hold the plastic frame to the metal body of his cold box, there was only the slightest indication of a dab of glue. It was yellow in color and to George did not look like nearly enough to even hold the magnet into the housing.
                “Well that’s just great.” George tossed the magnet casing in to his trash can which sat next to the refrigerator. He was not going to take the time to look for the small black magnet. It probably went under the refrigerator or rolled under the stove on the other side, directly beneath the nook. He set the paper down on the counter, already forgetting what was on it. He dismissed the idea of looking at it again, not thinking that it was really anything too important. He picked up his Pepsi and walked back to his desk. Setting the can on the glass surface he sat back down in his chair which gave another struggling squeal. He pulled himself up to the edge of the desk and brought the can of pop in front of him. He gave the top a quick couple of taps then looked at it. Inside the lip was a small speck of dirt. George took the edge of his shirt and wiped off the top of the can, getting into the small groove that traced the rim. After being satisfied with the now clean surface of the can, he opened it. There was the hiss of carbon dioxide escaping, the clean crunch of splitting metal and the soft fizz of thousands of tiny bubbles exploding in a violent release of the gas trapped inside the caramel-color concoction of sugar, water, and flavoring.
                George took a sip from the can and set it back down on the top of his desk. He leaned forward and rest his hands on top of his keyboard again. His eyes were locked on the blinking black cursor on the white screen. He knew he had to start writing at some point in time. After all, this was National Novel Writing Month and he was determined to actually finish the challenge that lay before him. He had the entire month of November to come up with fifty-thousand words, strung together in some sort of coherent plot and development. Of course this random hodgepodge of babble did not have to be polished at the end of the thirty days, but he still wanted it to make some sort of sense so he could have Chris or some of his other friends read it and gain their feedback. Today was the first day and he knew that his goal was one-thousand six hundred sixty-seven words. If he could pull that number off every day for the next thirty days he would win the monthly challenge and prove to himself that he could pull it off. His problem right now was where to start. He had no idea about what he wanted to write about. Technically that was not true. He knew exactly what he wanted to write about; a female protagonist. His problem was that he was not very romantically involved with anybody and had not been for a while. The only constant contact with a woman he had was Chris’s wife, Lauren. Although they would talk while the couple were over, or George was at their place next door, George never really had a lot of time talking with a woman or gaining a woman’s perspective on things. This is where he was stumped. He wanted to make the main character of his story a woman, but had no idea how about doing it. How could a man who could not achieve a date be able to write about a woman who was the emphasis of his story? His fingers slid back and forth over the keys, feeling the black plastic that was begging to be pressed in an orderly fashion. Slowly the words started to appear on the screen:

It was sunny outside. There were only a few clouds in the sky; nothing to make anybody think twice about the possibility of any rain. The sky was blue.

                George winced as he read the last sentence. The sky was blue? What other color was the sky be, green? Of course the sky was going to be blue. Four word sentences was not going to help him with his goal of reaching the daily number of words. He had to come up with something else. His right pinky moved over the backspace key and held it down until once more his screen glowed the blinding white, only tarnished by the black cursor that blinked again, mocking George’s inability to write anything down. Once again he started to write, going towards a different angle of attack.

Emma looked out her window. It was sunny outside. There were only a few clouds in the sky; nothing to make anybody think twice about the possibility of any rain. The sky was a pale blue.

                George shook his head. He had written the same damn thing. It seemed that his mind only wanted to write that one sentence over and over again. Oh yes, and he added a descriptive word to the color of the blue sky; pale. What kind of pale? George did not know. Maybe it was the bright spring blue of a robin’s egg or perhaps maybe the crisp clear blue of new formed ice on a winter’s morning. George did not know. All he knew was that it was pale in color compared to some other blue items that might happen to be around in the sky at that point in time. He was about to erase everything again when there was a knock at the door. George knew exactly who it was. There was only one person that would know he would be home all day that day; Chris, his neighbor from across the hall.
                Letting out a groan and standing up from his computer chair, George again abandoned the now almost blank page on his computer screen to find something else to busy himself with. He crossed the room in only a few quick strides and opened the door. He stepped back, allowing the door to swing freely as he turned around and walked back to his desk to pick up the can of Pepsi he had left behind. Chris did not wait to be invited in. As soon as the door opened he began to enter the bare apartment. He was noticeably taller than George, but it was not a drastic difference. His long legs and arms coupled to a long, slender body gave him the appearance of a lumbering marionette puppet, but only when he was standing still. Once he began to walk, he had the commanding presence of a king or some sort of person of noble birth. He seemed to glide along the ground in his long strides like every path and step he took was made with deliberation. He made three of these commanding steps before turning around to shut the door behind him. He turned back around to face George and smiled.
                “So,” Chris began, “what do you think?” He continued to smile, staring George down across the short span between the couch and the computer desk.
                “You got a haircut?” George asked, pointing at the short black hair, slightly specked with tiny bits of premature gray that crowned Chris’s oval-shaped melon.
                Chris stroked the top of his head before shaking it. He then proceeded to rub his chin and cheeks. “Baby smooth.” He said with a smile before lightly smacking himself on the cheeks with the palms of his hands.
                George ignored the motions made the lumber giant in his living room and sat down on the couch, setting his Pepsi can on the end table to his right. “And why is that?” he asked.
                “No Shave November.” Chris replied. “Start the month off by shaving clean and let your beard grow out over the next month.”
                George slowly nodded his head, fully understanding what Chris was saying, but still unsure of the reasons why someone would do such a challenge. At least with the novel writing challenge he would have something to show for his hard work and persistence; a poorly written and unedited piece of crap he would probably end up deleting in a few months to free up some hard drive space for more candid photos of Scarlett Johansson in tight dresses or cleavage-bearing outfits he would inevitably download from Google.
                “You should totally do it with me.” Chris continued.
                “Why?”
                “Because it would be fun and we could make a competition out of it to see who has the better beard.” Chris stood directly in front of George, looking down at him.
                “Yeah,” George began to explain, “I would except I’ve already committed myself to a challenge this month. I’m doing that novel writing thing.”
                “You can do both.” Chris suggested.
                “It sounds like too much work. Plus I’m struggling as it is with the one I am doing.”
                “Too much work?!” Chris exclaimed. “You sit there and don’t shave for a month. If anything, it is less work than you are already doing.”
                “I don’t know,” George let out with a sigh, playing with the can on the table; turning it back and forth on its base, leaving a small ring of condensation on the surface of the wooden stand. “It means I would have to stop working on my story and go shave right now.”
                Chris stepped towards the black metal and glass desk and looked at the screen which only showed a small collection of words. He mouthed them silently as he read them to himself before straightening back up and turning to face George.
                “Yeah, it looks like you’ve got such a lot going on right now that you aren’t at a point where you can really stop.” He said mockingly. “You could probably finish that description of the pale blue sky with no clouds in it.” He strode over to the couch and sat against the opposite arm rest, facing George who continued to play with his half-full can. Beads of condensation formed on the outside of the can and trickled down to the table as George continued to rotate it back and forth.
                “So what are you doing over here?” George finally broke the silence. “Did you just come over the show me your new baby face?”
                “No.” Chris said with a slight laugh in his tone. “Lauren is a bit mad that I’m doing this no shave thing. She doesn’t like the idea of me with a beard, so I came over here to escape her wrath and let her chill for a bit.”
                “So you are willing to tempt the fate of the Gods and go ahead with your plan, despite your wife not liking the idea?” George asked before taking another sip of his pop and setting the can back down on the table.
                “Just you wait and see.” Chris said. “When I grow out my beard and look like a lumberjack, she’ll change her mind and come running to me.”
                George tried to hold back a chuckle, but failed. “You, a lumberjack? You’re as tall as the damn trees.”
                Chris picked up the remote to the television and turned it on. “I could totally be a lumberjack. Walking around with an axe in hand, wearing those flannel shirts, being all manly and the such.” The box framed television set came on with a click and low hum. The cathode tube slowly warmed up and began to display the picture against the flat piece of glass. Chris shook his head as he set the remote back down on the coffee table. That was when he noticed a small gray box just below the television in one of the three cubby holes of the entertainment center.
                “Is that a VCR?” he asked pointing to it. George’s only response was a nod of his head. “Why do you have a VCR? Who owns a VCR these days? Who even still watches tapes?” Chris’s voice became higher pitched as he continued asking questions about George’s electronic selection.
                “All of my movies are on VHS tapes.” George said not looking away from the dull colors of the old screen. “I haven’t really felt the need to replace them or upgrade them to DVD.” Chris was at a loss for words. He could not even fathom what was going through his neighbor’s head. Who would not want to have a better method of watching movies? He just shook his head and stayed quiet, watching the flickering image on the glowing screen in front of him. George, a little distressed that Chris was hiding in his apartment, decided that he was just going to ignore the man on his couch and try to go back to his writing. He stood up, picking up the can of pop with him and went back to his computer chair. He sat there staring at the cursor, blinking at the end of the last sentence he had written. Where was he going from here?
                The light sound of the television set behind him was not at all distracting. What was distracting was the slight scratching noise coming from behind his computer. George looked over the desk behind the tall black tower that housed his computer’s internal organs, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He pushed his chair away from the desk once more and got on his hands and knees. Crawling under the desk, George went behind his computer tower and pushed it away from the wall. There, on the floor in front of his eyes, was what looked like a little chocolate sprinkle. George did not remember having any ice cream with sprinkles recently, and on top of that he only like the multi-colored sprinkles. That was when he realized what he was looking at. It was a dropping. A piece of crap. A turd. He had a mouse somewhere in his apartment and it had just proceeded to take a dump on the floor behind his computer.
                George quickly crawled back out from under his desk and stood up. His eyes traced the floor along the white-painted wooden trim board, looking for any signs of the rodent or where it may had gone. There was nothing.  Of course he was not expecting to see any miniature arch ways neatly cut out of the base board like everybody always seems to put in comics and cartoons, but he at least expected to see some sort of sign of gnawing or scratching to indicate that the mouse had worked its way under the board, between the hard wood flooring and the trim, and made a little nest in the wall.
                “He Chris, come here.” George demanded.
                Chris looked over his shoulder at his neighbor. “Why?”
                “I need your help with something.” George got on his hands and knees and began scooting along the base board along his wall.
                “Did you drop your contact or something?” Chris asked getting off the couch and walking over the far wall, standing over George in his usual commanding presence.
                “No, I think I have a mouse.” George said. “I’m trying to find where it went.”
                “Dude, just buy some traps and set them around your house.”
                “No, traps never work. The mouse always seems to get the bait off it and not set the thing off.” George scooted a little farther down the wall, still looking at the base board.
                “Use peanut butter.” Chris suggested.
                “And make my whole place smell like peanut butter? What happens when the mouse doesn’t take the bait? Then I have rotting peanut butter all over the place.”
                “You change it out often, idiot.” Chris chuckled. He strode back to the couch and sat down.
                George got up off the floor and brushed himself off. He did not know where there mouse had gone, but he was not going to worry about it today. He was drastically behind on his writing. He needed to get something done. He looked down at his word count at the bottom of his screen. It simply showed 36. 36 words out of 1667 that he needed to get for his daily goal. It was going to take forever at this pace to get those other 1631 words done. Luckily he had the day off from work and no plans for the night. It was a little bit a benefit of being single and not actively looking for someone to date. George had every night alone to himself to do whatever he pleased. Tonight was going to be all about writing. Maybe he could beat that daily word limit and muster up somewhere in the ball park of 2000 words. George sat back down at his desk and cracked his knuckles with a loud pop before poising the back over the keyboard. There were no words flowing this time, just the damn blinking cursor sitting idly to the right of a period. Maybe George just needed to clear his mind; get outside and get some fresh air. Pushing himself away from the desk once more with a grunt, George stood up and took his coat off the back of the chair. He swirled it behind him as he slipped first his right arm, then his left through the sleeves and pulled the collar up around his neck.
                “You want to go down to park?” George asked Chris, who seemed to be glued to the television set.
                “Huh?” Chris responded turning his head. “Um, sure I guess.” He stood up and walked towards the door in his typical lumbering strides. Chris pulled the door open as George grabbed his keys from the corner of the nook, but absentmindedly left the gray and white cell phone that sat a little to the left of his keys. He put the keys in his left coat pocket and joined Chris at the door. Closing it behind him and turning around to lock it, George reached in to his right pocket only to come up empty handed. He then reached into his left pocket and pulled out the set of gold and silver colored keys. Finding the one to his door he proceeded to lock the small round handle followed by the flat circular deadbolt lot directly above it. The two neighbors walked down the hallway side by side, passing Chris’s apartment, number 304. Without thinking, the two continued walking until they got to the staircase at the end of the hall. George opened the door to the stairs and looked at Chris.
                “Aren’t you going to grab a coat?” He asked.
                “Nah. I’ll be fine. Plus Lauren is probably still a little mad.”
                With that, the two entered the staircase. Their foot falls echoed in the small concrete enclosure as they made their way down to the main lobby of the building. Chris this time opened the door first and stepped outside in to the sunlight, blinking a few times to get used to the brightness. George soon followed suit, shielding his eyes from the glowing yellow ball of fire in the sky. The sidewalk was already busy with bustling people, dressed in all sorts of attire, from business to casual to even people still dressed in Halloween costumes running around like little kids. A couple to attractive girls dressed as slutty cats passed the two guys, giggling and waving their fake cloth tails around in the air. Chris watched them as they passed, taking note of the short black skirts that did not leave anything to the imagination of how high their legs went. George, however, only took a short glimpse at them, actively thinking in his head that girls these days could make anything in to a slutty costume as long as they had no inhibitions as to how much skin they wanted to show off. He recalled seeing a slutty zombie last year. The girl and done her make up to look like she was a rotting corpse, but her shirt was cut off above the midriff, exposing her stomach, but was also torn in several places, including at the shoulder, allowing it to fall off her shoulder and hang at her side. The result of such action of the shirt openly exposed her ample bare breast for the entire world to see. How she was able to get away with walking around the city dressed like that and not get arrested was astounding. George probably guessed that the cops who happened to stop her did not really care. He obviously did not say anything to the exposed mammary in front of him, and he was certain every other straight guy in the city did the same thing.
                George turned left and started walking toward the grove of trees that was visible through the buildings that lined the block. It was a collection of old Brownstone buildings; so called because of the color of stones that made the foundations and how in the old days of New York City (and other cities in the start of the New World) people would dump their fecal matter out the windows in to the street, permanently staining the walk ways and the bases of the building in a nutty brown that was only found in one source; from the human body. There was no greenery along their path as they walked the cold gray slab towards the park. The two weaved back and forth between people walking in the opposite direction. It always seemed that New York City was always busy, regardless of what day it was or the time.
                The two walked in silence, not really saying anything to each other as they strode along the sidewalk towards the green oasis in the center of the city. It was not uncommon for the two to go without words, especially if one of them has something on their mind. George was bothered by his story, trying to come up with more than a vague description of the sky. Chris was a little different. His mind was still on the two girls and their short skirts and tight tops, dawned with cat ears and hand drawn whiskers on their faces. He stared absent-mindedly ahead, not really paying attention to what was going on. He stepped off of the sidewalk and into the street, crossing it in his long strides not noticing the yellow taxi that was trying to drive straight through the intersection. There was a sharp blaring of the horn as the taxi driver laid on the breaks and pressed his palm firmly in to the center of the steering wheel. This snapped Chris out of his phase. He quickly turned to the cab and put his hands on the hood as the car screeched to a stop just inches from his knees. Chris slammed his hand on the hood.
                “Hey, I’m walkin’ here!” he exclaimed looking the taxi driver in the face before continuing across the street to the other side. George picked up his pace and once again was side by side Chris.
                “Did you just go Dustin Hoffman on that cab driver?” George asked, his hands thrust in to the pockets of his brown leather jacket.
                “What do you mean?” Chris asked, a little confused.
                “Midnight Cowboy,” George explained. “Where Dustin Hoffman was crossing the street and said practically the same thing as a cab tried to run him over.”
                “Never saw that movie.”
                “Seriously?” George scoffed at his friend. “There’s no way you could have just pulled that out of your head.”
                Chris smiled at this and continued walking, not making any type of a comeback. It was only after roughly walking for twenty minutes down the block that the two finally came to the edge of Central Park; the busy playground of the city where everybody seemed to come to relax during their lunch break, after work, or to just escape the realities of life.