I’ve had a real urge to do some creative writing recently, but I’m terrible at coming up with original ideas, so this is just a little experiment in writing very short pieces of mostly descriptive fiction.
If you have an idea for a story you want brought to life and think this is alright, email me at jenny.mugridge@gmail.com with your idea.
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His hands trembling, he raised his pen – that very fountain pen he had so desperately coveted from his mother’s desk, but that now filled him with regret and longing – and dipped it into the inkwell, taking care to remove any excess ink from the nib. He wouldn’t want to get this wrong; he only had one chance. The pen tip descended onto the page and he stroked it across as evenly as he could, controlling his tremor through a sheer force of will which had always failed him in past attempts. The ink sank into the paper and the words that had consumed his thoughts for so long finally became real, became tangible.
A slow smile began to take shape on this face that had expressed only pain and guilt for so long – it was a foreign experience to him, and oddly fitting. She had always said he had a lovely smile.
Content with his work he meticulously placed the pen’s cap back on, listening for the click to prove that this was the end of the matter; no more words would come from here, not any time soon anyway. He sealed shut the inkwell, closed the leather bureau – you know you’re not allowed in my study, you knew what would happen – and left, feeling immediately more like himself.
His smile faded. He had left his confession and now there was nothing left to do; he found himself feeling both liberated and suffocated by the knowledge that it was over. Too late to back out now. He was already a dead man.