[FICTION]

[12/08/25]

White Desk

by Keelan Ramsek

I am going back to my childhood home. My parents live there now, and need help moving out. They’ve decided it’s too big for just the two of them. They’re going to sell the house, get a huge RV, and travel the US. They’ll probably get one of those ratty white dogs too.

I can hear Your voice through the vents in the floor. I’d like to say something back but I don’t think You’d hear me. You’re talking to your brother.

“Can you hear me?” You whisper loudly.

“Yeah. Can I come to your room?” Your brother whispers back, even louder. I see You turn on the desk lamp. Click. Open the top drawer, pull out a notebook, and slam the drawer closed. Bang. Your brother’s footsteps. Knock knock.

“Come in.”

“Are mom and dad awake?”

“Yeah, I think, but their door is closed. I heard them brushing their teeth.”

“Okay, let’s write.”

You tear him out a piece of paper, and take the notebook for Yourself. Rip. He lays on his stomach on the floor, using Your dictionary as a hard surface.

“What are you writing?” You ask. 

“A poem. What are you writing?”

“A story.”

Then, footsteps. Thump thump. It’s Dad. Your brother shoves his book and paper under the bed. Whoosh. You race to climb onto your bed and under your covers, and toss Your brother a blanket. Plop. The door opens fast and hits your wall. Bam.

“What are you doing?” Dad asks. He’s in his underwear.

“Having a sleepover,” your brother fibs. He’s on the floor with Your blanket over him.

“Go back to your room.”

He goes back, wordlessly. Your dad takes the notebook You left on top of Your desk.

I wake up in the guest bedroom, which used to be mine. My white desk is still in the corner. It was yellow, but when I was fourteen I decided bright white would look better. I painted it with same paint from our living room, and I made the drawers checkered black and white. The yellow had so much writing on it, and scratches in the surface. I must’ve spent half of my childhood at that desk. The other half I spent outside. 

I can hear my parents downstairs talking, and taping up boxes. They don’t seem sad to be leaving this place. They asked me to clean and pack the upstairs. There are three rooms, and a bathroom. 

My brother’s room has blue striped wallpaper, with basketball stickers stuck to it. The light switch plate is chunky, and has pictures of sports equipment. On the end of the fan chain, is a tiny baseball. Never in his life did my brother play sports.

My room is a light pink. It doesn’t resemble my old room anymore. The glowing stars are still stuck to the ceiling.

The third room belonged to our baby sister.

I hear Your brother tell You proudly, “Mom and Dad liked my poem.” 

“They did?”

“Yeah, mom said she’ll post it on Facebook.”

I can see jealousy in Your eyes. Sigh, writing was supposed to be Your thing. Why did he have to try every hobby You picked up? 

“I’m gonna write a whole book, You tell him.”

“That’s cool. Me too. We should write it together!”

“I don’t want to. Write your own.”

I watch you sitting at your desk, writing in the paint with a broken pencil. Scratch.

God is love, You write. 

Everything is in boxes. The boxes are stacked neatly against my brother’s bedroom wall. Next to the boxes I’ve put a chair, a lamp, a rolled rug, the pieces of my bed frame, a small bookshelf. And the white desk. My mom comes to see what I’ve done.

“You made quick work of it,” she says. “You sure you don’t want to take any of it? Not even your desk?” 

I shake my head.

“No. It’s not very pretty anyway.”

I want to take it. I want to write at it again, I want to scratch lovers' names into the wood, and doodle on the drawers. I want to hide poems and secret novels in the back of the drawers. I want to write with my brother again. I want him to sit next to me on the floor using the dictionary as a hard surface. I want us to write a book together. I want to do things with him. I’ll even get him a chair, we can write at the desk together. He can write his name in the white paint if he wants to.

“Thank you for all this. So helpful.” My mom puts her hand on my arm, and goes back downstairs.

Suddenly it’s night, and I can hear your voice in the vents again.

“You should come to my room,” You whisper loudly. 

“Okay.”

“To do what?” Your brother whispers back, loudly.

“I don’t know. Just to talk and stuff. I have chocolates in my desk.”

KEELAN RAMSEK is an artist living in Kentucky. Her work appears in Overgrowth Press, 100 Subtexts Magazine, and Virgo Venus Press. She is 21 years old.