Running my fingers over the bright red cover of my sketchbook, feeling every bump, rip, every imperfection. I take the cover and pull it over the shiny black spiral keeping the whole thing together. Looking at the neon blue drawings, which were done in highlighter, on the first page, searching for anything my art teacher wrote as he graded my sketches for the week. There was nothing written yet. Taking the first page of the sketchbook and feeling the papery material between my fingertips, I turned the page over the black spiral again, looking at each sketch and drawing. More bright blue drawings, one done in red pen, a few pencil sketches and still lifes. Reaching my most recent drawing, I read the carefully written note done by Mr. Sanderson. Expecting critiques and criticism, I scan over the neatly written cursive done in pen that praises me for my work and potential. I smile and close my sketchbook before putting it back into my bag.

Grasping the reflective gold door handle to my bedroom, I twisted it and pushed the door open. Dropping my bag on the carpeted floor next to my bed and the empty vivarium, I zipped open my bag and pulled out my sketchbook. Scooting onto the bottom bunk of my bed and sitting against the wall I open up my book. I glanced to the bedside shelf, seeing if there was any pen or pencil I left there that actually worked, which there wasn’t. The room was silent except for the low  hum of the ceiling fan that was turned on the lowest setting. The only light my room offered was the heat lamp sitting on top of my 70 gallon tank for my snake, that sat by the window whose blinds and curtains were pulled shut. I could almost smell the somewhat humid mulch that sat at the bottom of the tank. Taking my attention from my sketchbook I look around my room to see some familiar sights. My TV, which was only ever used in the morning anymore, posters, my mirror who desperately needed to be cleaned, and the empty 50 gallon vivarium that was waiting for a new resident. I turned back to my sketchbook, flipping through the empty pages, I imagined what I would draw in it.

My bedroom door opened and a little black lab pushed her way inside my room. She stopped and looked at me before jumping up onto the end of my bed, walking around in a circle a few times, before plopping herself onto the bed. She turned her head around and looked at me with her big brown eyes, expecting some pats. Leaning over my sketchbook, I run my fingers through her short wiry fur and I pat her butt before turning back to my drawings. My dog Pepper, who also smelt very bad, sneezed and pushed herself up to nudge her head into my hands for some more attention. Of course, I had to pet her some more before trying to think of what to draw. I look up from my book and a lightbulb went off in my head. I could draw Pepper! I pay attention to her slightly downturned muzzle, which reminded me of a hound. Her cute floppy ears and those beautiful puppy eyes were my favorite. Studying her closely, I look at the dusting of white hairs under her chin and the splotches on her chest and tummy. Her legs were shorter than an average lab and the way her chest was formed made me think she was mixed with some sort of coonhound. She took her little black paw and hit it against my leg, begging me for attention.

Going over the folds of my sketchbook, I take the rollerball pen that was sitting inside the black spiral of the book. I press the top, listening to the click, and I run the tip of the pen across the stark white paper. The ink flowed through the grit of the paper, making permanent lines and curves that stood out. The crisp black pen strokes took shape the more I drew, making sketches that resembled the form of my dog. Pulling my focus away from drawing, I take a moment to look at the sketch of my dog, switching back and forth between my sketchbook and her to compare the accuracy. There was a lot left to be desired but I can only draw so well for now.