Copyright © Ayesha Amanah Nuha 2020 — UKAF
All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The sands of time are running along seamlessly but I’m just sitting, almost inertly, with my right hand poised over a crisp, blank page while holding onto a purple pen. The words are suspended in the air but I can’t seem to be able to weave them together. Every idea that pops up in my head are shallow and cliché and don’t possess an iota of originality in them.
I glance at the small table clock on my desk and watch the slow but inevitable circular motion of the second hand. A quick mental math tells me I’m approximately eight hours away from the deadline. I begin to inwardly curse my sister for signing me up for this annual writing competition. Gradually, fear threatens to throttle me as I think of being under the limelight of utter humiliation from submitting some entirely incomprehensible piece of work. My mother is always exaggerating my English proficiency. In reality, there is nothing extraordinary about my writing tactics although, I aspire to be a renowned novelist one day. Just dreams, you know. Everyone has one.
Exhaling a long, despairing sigh, I turn my attention back to the task at hand. I make an earnest attempt at dredging up every advice my English teachers ever gave me only to face the fact that I honestly never paid much attention during classes. My anxiety picks up its pace and, dropping my pen, I hastily stand up and make a spontaneous decision to go out for a late night stroll around the neighborhood. Perhaps, I’ll find some inspiration.
As I saunter, somewhat aimlessly, under the starless sky, I try to envisage almost every animate and inanimate object my gaze lands on as something other than what they generally appear to be. By the end of half an hour, I return home with a plastic bag and within it are packets of carbohydrates, calories and fat – also known as junk food. My sister attacks the bag as soon as she notices it, like a five year-old hoping to find candy. I slump down on the living room sofa and soon we drift into a conversation where one topic leads to another.
When I finally get my lethargic butt on my desk chair again, it’s already past the zero hour. I pick up my pen and start scribbling.
“The girl and boy stumbled upon each other in the steep staircase. Although it appeared to be a normal encounter, the girl wanted to believe it was the beginning of something wonderful. Maybe it was destiny. Maybe they’ll find themselves amidst many dramatic events together.”
Maybe this is the worst thing I have ever written.
Genre : Creative Nonfiction, Drama, Humour, Flash Fiction
Submitted on 15th November 2020.