As a writer, I feel the need to revise, to rewrite my life. I won’t ever get the chance: it is the first draft that gets published.
Upon my death, my life will be summed up in words.
I hope the words are kind. I hope the words are true.
Eileen McIntyre is a writer working on her first mainstream fiction novel. Eileen lives in Northern California with her ardent fan, her husband Michael.
I think I will write a story today.
Words to paint glowing meanings in which I’ll revel,
Using verbs and nouns, adjectives as well,
Fiction or truth, a story of many words I’ll tell,
To keep me happy, as hours to days will swell.
Oh, there is no ink! No stories today.
The ancient bard settled more comfortably into his furs and breathed in deeply. The air held the scent of pine needles, campfire smoke, and eager anticipation.
His audience held their breaths with rapt attention, awaiting the bard’s words of adventure, beauty, and wisdom.
The bard opened his mouth to begin…
@gameking218: “I forgot the Smores,” he said. Everyone up and left.
@VikkieTheMimm: …but alas, he’d lost his voice. Darn that Mage Flu.
What happens next? Write your own conclusion to this story and either write in a comment or send it to me via Twitter at @50wordstories. Your conclusion must be ten words or less!
I’ll add in responses as I receive them, though I may make some edits of my own before including them.
“Tell us a story, Grampa!”
“Alright, kids! Once there was an old man with fourteen grandchildren. He was a grumpy man, so he took all their toys away and burned them. The End.”
“Thanks for the story, Grampa! Can we play dolls now?”
“Sorry, Susie. It was a true story.”