write a story contain 400 words begin with
I picked up the pen and remember what the old man who gave it to me had said: Whatever you write
will come true, so use this pen carefully. I smiled, then I began to write....
Answers
Answer:
It was raining hard that night. In my hurry to get into the house, I didn't notice the black car parked across the road. I realized something was wrong when I could see someone hovering around the car. I wasn't sure if it was safe to go to the car to investigate but my instincts dragged me from the gate of my building to across the road and next to the car. What happened in that half an hour is what I call my most unforgettable memory.
I could see a man pacing up and down, drenched and injured. At first when I saw him, he looked inebriated as he was losing his balance now and then. But as I went near him, I was sure it was the injury and not any substance that was causing him to tip.
Excuse me Sir! Can I help you? I asked him. He seemed to be in a state of shock. I tried calling out to him but he continued going round and round his car. I was not comfortable reaching out to him physically and I thought he might attack me in his condition. But there was no one I could call as my phone had switched off after getting wet in the rain. Also, if I went home, which was just across the street, my over-protective mother would panic and wouldn't let me help him. So there I was, feeling helpless and angry, because I decided to help someone without knowing what to do.
I remember standing in the rain for quite some time, staring at the man hovering around his car, feeling absolutely worthless. Then in a flash of a moment, I found myself walking towards him and reaching out to his shoulder.
Answer:
A young man in his late twenties decided to become a writer.
At the beginning of the pursuit of his craft, he sought out all the writing advice he could find.
He attended writing workshops, went to many parties of a literary nature, drove far into the woods seeking the wisdom of writing retreats, and read countless books on writing by countless other writers.
After several years of this, he began to despair. He seemed to have found the correct knowledge, and a few seemingly valuable contacts along the way, but he hadn’t yet written anything of consequence.
He felt very validated by a number of his very nice friends in his Thursday night writing circle, but he couldn’t keep down the horror in his gut that something was going terribly wrong.
He was having a good time. There were the parties, the drink, the pills, and the long conversations about art and writing.
Then, somewhere in his mid-thirties, the not-so-young-anymore writer looked around and realized that he had wasted many years.
This confused him, because his entire circle of friends were “writers” after all.
On a particularly starry Thursday night, the phone rang — like it did almost every other night of the week — at 11:03 p.m. Pacific Time. Only this time, he didn’t answer it. It rang again, and again, and four more times before midnight. He did not pick it up.
Instead of going out with his “writer” friends, that night he just sat at his desk and stared at a blank sheet of paper.