The Writer

“Tell me a story” she said. He looked into her eyes and said, “What kind of story?” She smiled and said, “Anything. Tell me any story.” He thought for a bit and then said, “Alright. Here’s one. A good one. Now listen.”


The dark clouds hovered over the sky crappers of the city as a lone young journalist walked in the busy street. With a notepad in his hand and a pen attached to his breast pocket, he sniffs out a tale or two to be told in the newspapers tomorrow. Like a hungry dog, begging for it’s meal, he prowls the street looking for something to write. Just then the dark clouds gave in and started to tear and as they teared, the earth beneath them became drenched with the sorrowful liquid. The young journalist did not escape the weather’s wrath and he ran to a bus stop nearby to seek for shelter. “Why do you cry o’ sorrowful clouds? What pains do you bear for you to cry this much?” The young journalists thought to himself as he lighted his cigarette, waiting for the rain to stop. Sorrowful clouds.. that’s a good phrase. Something that has to be used. And with that he immediately writes it down into his notepad. And as he sat smoking in the bus stop, observing the rain falling from the sky onto the tar road, drenching the motorists and buses and cars, he observed his surrounding, and based on what he observed he formed sentences through every action taking place before him. He loved the thrill and joy of “painting” forms through words. Wordplay. He enjoyed imagining, he enjoyed creating music out of words, out of stories. Sorrowful clouds.. He opens his notepad and scribbles what he hears and observes.


The girl stops him from talking, “What kind of weirdo is that who jots everything he sees down?” He smiles and says, “Do you want to hear the story or not?” “Yes! Yes! I do!” And so, he continues relating the tale to her.


The rain stops and the dark clouds hover away but the city was still in the dark as night had embraced it unknowingly during the dark of the rain. The young journalists kills his cigarette and slowly makes his way, still searching, still hunting, still sniffing out a story to tell. His watch’s alarm beeps indicating 12 o’clock. Again, no story for the papers today.. He takes a cab home.


“I thought journalists were assigned to assignments?” she asks. “They do. But it’s different with the crime desk. Now, may I continue?”


He takes his shower, has his dinner and lights a cigarette. Infront of him, his laptop. He takes a deep sigh and starts typing out something. In thirty minutes, he completes a short story based on what he observed today at the bus stop. He smiles at himself, the satisfaction of reading his work. Reading his story. He was too tired to ask the reason behind the constant need for information and news. Why can’t people just sit and hear a a good story conjured up just like that? Why can’t life be simple? Maybe it’s fear. Fear in knowing that stories aren’t true, and hard facts like news are true. He had come to a point in life where he was able to combine practicality and imagination together. He smiled at himself, takes a last puff and goes to bed, hoping that tomorrow, just maybe, he might hit a story. And if he doesn’t, he’ll come home and write one just like he did today. The end.


“That’s all?” the girl asks. “Yeah. That’s all.” She looked puzzled. “So.. who’s this guy?” He smiles and says, “Just someone I know.” There was silence. She breaks it, “Well.. he’s weird and different.” The boy smiles sadly, feels the pen in his pocket and replies, “That’s the problem..”


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