Sleep evades me. The whispering wind lightly bounces off my body and continues traveling to ancient destinations. Sometimes I cry, but usually I clench my teeth and keep the pain inside. Agony is my muse. Bitter defeats from past battles are my tools. Melodies echoing across the caverns of my mind are my destruction. I write. 1
I wrap a faded, midnight blue, flannel blanket around my shivering body. My mother had given me this blanket as a gift. Twenty years ago, she had smiled and with all the confidence she could muster told me I would be a great writer one day. She is dead now. Once again I write.2
I inch closer to the single remaining candle more so for the heat than the light. My mother would no doubt be ashamed at what I have become. A sharp pain in my stomach doubles me over. I cough. Half choking, I dry heave. There is no half digested food to spew forth. I convulse for a few moments, clean the spittle off my face, and continue writing.3
The incandescent light flickers twice, and then dissipates. My trusted friend is gone. I sit in darkness. Placing my hands in front of my mouth, I exhale heated breath on them. I allow my eyes time to readjust to the darkness. Pencil down to the nub, my trembling hands once again attempt to write.4
Losing track of time; my mind journeys to castles, feasts, and kings. Damsels in distress and outlaw knights come alive before me. I write with unbridled enthusiasm, unequaled passion, and a ferociousness bordering on madness. In the midst of my greatest story ever, my pencil point breaks. Using my teeth as a sharpener, I manage to obtain a blunt point. Once again I write.5
Clouds dissolve and light from a full moon races toward me. I pause to reflect on my youth. Dreams of being a published author have haunted me as far back as I can remember. From high school to college, every second of spare time was spent chasing words. After college, I held jobs long enough to save money. Then I would lock myself in a room and write for days on end. Never once have I been published. All that will change soon. Determined, I focus on the paper before me. Once again I write.6
An eerie chill creeps upon me. Wrapping the blanket tighter, I fight to shake the feeling. A sudden burst of pain slams me onto the cold ground. Clutching my chest, I fight for breath. The pain in my chest subsides. Despite the cold, my body has broken out in a sweat. 7
“God,” I scream into the night. “I have not yet accomplished my dreams. Please don’t take me now.”8
“My child,” A voice reverberates through the darkness. “You have given all you have to give. You have nothing left.”9
“I don’t understand. I am broke, hungry, and cold. I have done nothing with my life except waste it away writing stories. “10
“But that is all you were placed on earth to do.”11
I die alone in the middle of the woods. I go without fear, for I used every drop of talent and every ounce of potential God blessed me with. I lived my life waiting for that big break. In the end, I realized I was one of the lucky ones. Every word, every sentence, and every story were bits and pieces of my heart interwoven with my soul. I was just an inadequate vessel given the ability to capture words and emotions, if only for a moment, and pen them with style and grace.12
A contest entry
- Look at it through their eyes by Forgotten Anomaly.
450 points, ended December 7, 2008, 11 entries
• next story in this contest, remove from contest - Remind me of the power in our words... by Forgotten Anomaly.
600 points, ended November 20, 51 entries
• next story in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 11 of 11
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Absolutely chilling! This has some tone to it! So very gloomy and desolate in the respect of the speaker's inevitable fate. The language is very clear, I could picture this easily. The end conversation between the speaker and God is fascinating. I really enjoyed reading something so different as this.
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Thank you for taking the time to read this story.Whenever i feel let down and alone this story brings me out of my funk. Glad you enjoyed it.
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Hahaha, I laugh ironically. If this should be my fate, I'd consider my life well spent. You did a great job capturing the driving passion to write. I loved especially the sharpening of the pencil with the teeth! One does what one must. In a way, it reminds me of those in prison, or hiding in caves or the like, who write what they can, what they must, to stay sane. In this case, though, sanity...it is not enough. Birthing that other world, that is the goal. I think you succeeded!
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thank you for reading and commenting on my story.
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Words, ideas, characters fill their minds and maybe someone will someday recognize their talent.
Definitely written for a 'Writers' Only' review. You have put in all the emotion, frustration, and self-recrimination that writers experience too often
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They suffer through hours, days and years developing a story, creating believable characters and having it all rejected--sometimes without a proper read--after laying in a publisher's slush pile for months
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So...why do these sorrowful souls continue doing it--because as you so delightfully stated, they are writers. Words, ideas, characters fill their minds and maybe someone will someday recognize their talent.
Thank you for allowing us to ‘See’ at least God will recognize that we have indeed used our talent
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Geri
beginning: 5, plot: 5, ending: 5, characters: 5.
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Thanks
Thank you for taking the time to read and comment on my story. Us writers are a crazy lot. But we have a passion and commitment which is unrivaled. Thanks again.
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A very deep and emotional tale of a writer driven into an almost manic depression through the desire to be successful.
The POV of the storyteller is unique in the fact he/she dies whilst telling the tale of woe. A sad, but well written, ending of a life not meant to be successful.
This story held my interest as I was at first perplexed by the characters situation and was wondering how the writer could be in such a disastrous state. Paragraphs 6 and 7 rectified the reasons which then left me hoping the writer would pull through.
The image of a lonely, ill and mentally disturbed writer, sitting in the cold, dark woods is written with dexterity and I could 'feel' the well described anguish when God calls time.
I liked the unusual setting for this story and the emotional impact is immense.
The only concept I'm not sure about is the use of candles in the woods. Although the wind is described as 'light' I think the candles would not last long.
All in all, a good story, written with deep emotions which are clearly shown in the writing.
A couple of points for you to consider:
Para 3: She was dead now - She is dead now
Para 13: was bits and pieces - were bits and pieces
beginning: 5, language: 5, plot: 5, ending: 5, dialog: 5, characters: 5.
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thanks for comment
Thanks for commenting on my story. I will make the grammatical corrections. Glad you pointed them out. Thanks for reading glad you enjoyed.
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Interesting story told from a unique perspective. I can relate to all the emotions that you portray in the story. This is definatly written for a writer audience. Good job.
Things that didn't quite work for me. Second paragraph: My mother had given me this blanket as a gift. It depends on the sentences around it for support, not sure what it needs but I know it needs to stand on it's own. Second to the end: She was dead now. Should be: She is dead now. That will keep your tenses correct: is and now.
5th Paragraph, last sentence is missing a few words to make it complete.
There were a few other akward phrases, my best suggestion is to have someone else read this to you while you have your eyes closed to hear the phrasing. Hope this helps when you are ready to edit it.
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Thanks for your comments. They are extremely helpful and true. Glad you could relate.
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Wow, the imagery, emotion... this is fantastic. You are the first person to tackle this prompt and you did it so wonderfully that it has left me breathless. I wish that fate on no one, to spend their life slaving over words only to die from its reprocutions. Fantastic. Thank you for entering my contest, you are a finalist.
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