The Writer Awoke before Dawn (standard:humor, 1677 words) [1/2] show all parts
Author: Ian Hobson	Updated: May 03 2004	Views/Reads: 4172/2231	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A slanted look inside the mind of a short story writer.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

odd, as there was no mention of a walking stick in the opening 
paragraphs.  ‘Fuck it!' he said, ‘I'll go back and edit one in later.'  
He considered deleting the F-word but decided that any reader that had 
come this far was probably hooked by now.  A fox trotted across the 
footpath on the hillside ahead, before disappearing into the trees on 
the left.  He had never thought about it before, but foxes did actually 
trot. 

He, the writer / retired bank clerk, not the fox, stopped for a moment
to admire the view, and as he did so, the sun crested the low hills in 
the east.  He liked the dawn.  The opening lines of an old Doors song 
sprang to mind...  No, not sprang to mind... they surfaced?  Aw, 
bollocks!...  He suddenly remembered the opening lines of an old Doors 
song, ‘The killer awoke before dawn.  He put his boots on'; and the 
seed of an idea began to germinate.  This often happened.  He would set 
off for a walk with the intention of doing no more than getting some 
fresh air and exercise, only to find himself writing another story. 

He continued to climb, soon passing the spot where the fox had crossed
the path.  And as he reached a small rocky outcrop, he decided that it 
was time he stopped for some breakfast.  He took off his rucksack and 
sat down on the flattest of the rocks... No, that's the last thing he'd 
do with a sore tailbone: sit on a rock...  And upon reaching a wooden 
field-gate in a dry-stone wall, he decided that it was time he stopped 
for some breakfast.  He took off his rucksack, and leaning back against 
the gate, he opened the rucksack, took out his foil-wrapped bacon 
sandwich and began to eat...  He should have unwrapped it first, but 
surely the reader would know that. 

He washed down the sandwich with hot coffee from his thermos flask;
still working on the story that was now beginning to take shape in his 
mind.  But he turned to look uphill as his thoughts were interrupted by 
the sound of an approaching tractor.  He wondered if the driver, a 
young lad in green overalls, was intending to pass through the gate, in 
which case he would open it for him, but with a wave of his right hand 
the lad veered sharply to the left, bumping over some rough ground, and 
coming perilously close to making this sentence too long.  ‘Who's to 
say Microsoft know an overly long sentence from a short one, anyway,' 
he thought. 

He replaced his thermos flask and slung his rucksack.  Fortunately it
landed in soft grass.  He walked over to it and picked it up and put it 
back on his back, wishing he could think of a better way of saying 
that, then continued on through the gate and uphill towards the farm 
buildings.  He looked around to see if the farmer was about, thinking 
that it would be nice to introduce some dialogue into the story.  But 
the farmyard was deserted, apart from a ginger tom... No, that's 
probably a cliché.  ...a black and white cat sitting on a wall beside 
the barn.  He had a one sided conversation with the cat, and then 
deleted it; thinking that it sounded stupid.  A flock of geese flew 
overhead in almost perfect V-formation, apart from one straggler, and 
both he and the cat watched them. 

As the geese became no more than specks in the sky, he walked on through
the farmyard and along the main farm track, undecided as to whether its 
gravel should crunch under his feet or whether it should be recently 
tarmacked.  He opted for the gravel because neither he nor Spellcheck 
knew for sure how to spell ‘tarmacked'.  Ahead, in the distance, he 
could see the reservoir, but above it there were rain-clouds, and they 
looked to be heading his way.  The rain wasn't forecast, but he was 
running out of ideas now and thought that the rain would give him a 
good excuse to take the short route back to the cottage and more 
swiftly conclude the story. 

He left the farm track via a ladder stile and followed the footpath down
through the pinewoods.  The gong was very soft...  He wondered if he 
could say that about a footpath, or if that description was strictly 
reserved for racetracks.  He reached a fork in the path, uncertain of 
which way to go, and he stood for a while, prodding at a rotting log 
with his walking stick, and trying to think what to write next.  A 
large piece of bark fell away, and a family of woodlice scurried off to 
look for a new home. 

He took the left fork, deciding to go back over the story in his mind
once more.  That sometimes worked.  Though he was soon distracted, as 
the footpath narrowed and was, in places, overgrown with brambles, some 
of which tried to trip him.  But after toiling on for another fifteen 
minutes or so, and occasionally using his stick as a jungle explorer 
might use a machete, he finally reached the end of another paragraph. 

He thought about being struck by lightening, but that seemed just a
little too dramatic...  Or being attacked by a bear, but there were no 
bears in England.  Overhead the sky was growing darker, and he could 
hear distant rumbles of thunder, and as he left the trees he felt the 
first few drops of rain.  And somewhere ahead he could hear the rush of 
water where the stream went over a waterfall.  He felt a sudden urge to 
make a waterfall of his own and stepped off the path to relieve 
himself...  Now he really was hard up for ideas; making the subject of 
the story take a piss.  ‘Aw bollocks!' he thought.  It started to rain 
like fuck, so the bloke rushed back to his cottage as fast as he could. 
THE END. 

*** 

It gets better in Part 2.  I promise. 


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