The Hunt

While I am still in high school and completing my final year, I am also in university. How does that work? Well I have chosen a university course as one of my electives. And no surprise here, I’m studying creative writing. *cue fake gasp* Shocker!

Anyways, for my assessment I have to put together a port folio and this week I had to write a VERY short story. Yes, you read that right. Not just a short story, a very short story, which meant I had to write between 400 and 500 words. It was an extremely difficult task. I struggle to write short stories as it is, I write novels.

As any good procrastinator, I thought I had more time to work on it but when I go and check in the discussion board where we are supposed to have put them, I see everyone else has already submitted theirs. And then the realisation hit me like a slap in the face. My short story was due that night before midnight and it was already 7pm. But nevertheless, I managed to make something up and I thought I would share it with you.

So without further ado, here is my very short story (can’t forget the very), titled ‘The Hunt.’

It happens the moment your eyes open in the morning. It happens the moment your gaze wanders around for the first time—noticing the rays of sunlight filtering through the curtains; surveying the way the sunlight reflects off the fronds of the plant that sits on the windowsill; observing, through still bleary eyes, the life that carries on outside the door. The search for inspiration.

The sounds of everyday life filter into the bedroom. The moment I roll out of the bed and place my feet against the floor, my life as a writer begins.

The blank page stares up at me with empty eyes, with a closed expression that lacks emotion. My pen hovers over it; stationary. A single stroke though is all it takes before whole characters are coming to life right before your eyes. A single stroke of ink—blue, black, red or green is all it takes for something to take place.

Then the second stroke is a completely different story. The second stroke begins a whole new journey and you think, maybe you could be onto something good, onto something big. You think, maybe you could be the next J.K. Rowling, the next Terry Prachett, the next Bryce Courtenay.

Then just as I am beginning to get back into the swing of writing, ping! I have a new Facebook message.

“Hey, how are you? What are you doing?” I reply, and then, “Oh, you know, just writing a book.”

After a five minute conversation, I drag my attention back to my most recent project and continue writing. Stroke after stroke, word after word, sentence after sentence. Another ping! And when I check my messages, I find my friend sharing her apparently horrible life story with those emojis that have tears gushing down their cheeks after every sentence.

“It’s okay,” I tell them, but as I am trying, and failing, to bring those tears to a standstill, a light bulb goes off somewhere in my head and helping my friend becomes the least of my worries. My pen, that was once stationary, is now like a bullet out of a gun, the tip flying across the lined paper at a million miles per hour. Suddenly my friend’s life has become my latest inspiration.

In the background I can still hear my phone reminding me that I have new messages, no doubt my friend still going on and on but I ignore it, completely captured in the world that involves the smell of white out, the sound of my pen scratching against the paper, the feel of my teeth gnawing at my bottom lip as I write.

If only she could read what I have just written… she would despise me.

Hope you enjoyed it. 🙂

~PasoMaddie xx


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