The reactions from faceless people - nameless people - when I tell them my dream ignites a fire inside me. I contemplate stabbing them with my freshly sharpened pencils, but then reality tunes in and I realize I should probably write my novel before going to prison. That's what mother would want.

No supporters surround me at my desk of white paper with thin blue lines that guide me. Only people whose goal is destruction. As if I'm not surrounded by that each day - people whose goal is destroy the person the envy, the one whose got a future. A goal. And my goal is laughed at.

"You can't really publish a book. You're only fourteen."

Those words are black with envy and doubt and all bad thing like starving dogs and earthquakes in torn lands. I'll take those words and I will shove them down the throats of the speakers, poison and hatred and negativity eliminated so I can reach my -

goal.

And they tell me, "It's a dream," but they are wrong. Dreams are what you see at night, when you're in an odd, rainbow unconsciousness and anything can happen. Dreams are impossibilities. Reading minds and superpowers and growing seven arms or even having a baby when you are a baby.

Writing a book isn't a dream. It is wholly possible and anyone who doubts it must be locked away until the book is published and their ears can bleed when I read to them words of victory, supremacy, satisfaction and revenge.