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| >> Static Item >> Short Story >> Horror/Scary >> ID #1092086 |   |
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Third Place---4/10/09
The Trophy I sat looking at the trophy in my hands, the evidence of what I'm truly capable of doing. For months I had suffered with writer's block. I couldn't write a word; I hadn't a single idea in my head. Suddenly I was hit with a surge of inspiration. My fingers raced over the keyboard as the story filled my monitor's screen. It was as though the story was being dictated to me, word by glorious word. When I finished I could hardly believe that I had written this wonderful tale. I spent the next week rereading it, looking for typos and mistakes, but it was perfection. I sealed it in an envelope and sent it to the Thompson's Fiction Writing Contest. Two months later I received the notice that my story had been awarded the grand prize. At a lavish black-tie ceremony I was given the prize check and this trophy. I had never felt so proud. I was sitting in my office holding the trophy when my friend Peter arrived. We hadn't seen each other for more than two years. I held it up for him to see as he came into the room. He smiled. "Congratulations, it's about time. Where is it now, this prize winning masterpiece of yours?" I handed him the manuscript and he sat down on the couch and began to read. He had hardly begun the second page when a look of surprise came on his face. He leaped to his feet and yelled, "David, how could you?" "What do you mean?" I stammered. I'd never seen him so angry. "This is the story I wrote and showed you three years ago." He threw the pages down on my desk. "'Don't quit your day job', you said. 'The plot and characters are totally unbelievable'," you said. You were so critical that I believed you and gave up my dream to become a writer." He slammed his fist down on top of the manuscript. "Yet here it is, your prize-winning story; just as I wrote it, word for word." I could hardly believe what I was hearing, but now I remembered. It was true. No wonder the story had seemed to write itself. Hot tears blurred my vision as I looked at my trophy. I opened my mouth to apologize, but all I could think was, how can I convince Peter not to tell? When the detective pried the trophy out of my hands, it was covered with a sticky dark-red substance; the evidence of what I'm truly capable of doing. 428 words
© Copyright 2006 dmack (UN: mdmackey at Writing.Com).
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