Breath of an Hour

10 04 2012

The End


The knife tip dug so hard into his temple that it made Edward wince with pain. It hurt so much he was almost sure it would draw blood. He could almost feel crimson red drip down the side of his face.

The Beginning

When he first hit upon being a writer, he would not have thought it would one day get him in such deep trouble. Just the night before a roving band of ruffians had gotten him drunk. Of course, he did not know their true intentions while they got him liquored up. There was a lot more laughter then. They had actually cracked jokes and smiled but this was no longer the case.


But once they found out he was a man of words, a black plan formed in their hearts. They would steal him away and have him write a tale for them. Yes, it was in their mind to kill a man if he did not write for them a bed time story. One hour, he had only one hour! Did they not realize that a properly composed work took days of writing and editing and rewriting?! Obviously not, for here he sat with the minutes passing by and he had still not written anything. Oh of all the times to have writers block! He had put his pen to the page more than once, yet no words came forth. Prose by the way of being difficult… just decided not to come. His mind did not like the fact that the knife was so close to it. The sand from the glass of an hour slid through from the top bulb to the one beneath it. As the grains fell he seized his last chance and put the pen to the page one more time and wrote, “The knife tip dug so hard into his temple…”





One response

22 04 2012
Polly Robinson

I like the repetition of ‘the knife tip …’ and I’m thanking MarinaSofia for the introduction

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