Pen To Paper

• Daniel Iera, Grade 5, St Joan of Arc School
• Short Story
• 2015

Excellence Award in the 'Read Write Repeat 2015' competition

The moon stands proudly in the night sky, its bright glow illuminating the cobbled streets below. Everything is still. Everything is quiet. However, in the inky darkness of Crescent Street, shielded from the light, a lone figure stirs...

He wears a long, black coat, and dark, grey slacks. His face is concealed by the shadow of an old hat. He blends into the night well; just as he wishes. He moves slowly down the sidewalk, every step makes a wooden clunking noise. A brilliant beam of moonlight illuminates the man, like a giant spotlight. It is revealed he walks with the aid of a cane. Small symbols are carved into the oak stick, and only the man knows what they mean. He is lonely. He prefers the company of a pen and paper to that of other people. He would write stories everyday, long stories, short stories, silly stories, solemn stories. But publish one? Not ever. It would be shut down. Rejected. People would laugh and jeer at him. He was no JK Rowling. No Andy Griffiths. Just an ordinary man, who conceals himself from society, hiding away in the pages of his stories. He feels safe there. Happy. He feels at home.

As the man walks, he ponders why he decided to do this? Why was he out here, his only company the milky glow of the moon? Was it hope? Frustration? The truth is, the man didn't know. Yet, here he was, the houses looming over him, egging him on. The moonlight, guiding him through the maze of London. The man sighs, not a sigh of relief, or anger. Just a simple sigh, letting the air from his lungs. Nothing more. Like I said before, he was ordinary.

He walks for what feels like days. Every step seems so difficult, such a challenge. His walking stick thudding heavily against the ground, in a hypnotic rhythm. It is quiet around him, as if sound itself has decided to stop and watch the man pass. He doesn't feel so ordinary anymore, in fact, almost special. The poor fellow is extremely tired, but alas, he continues. He will get to his goal. Whatever it takes.

The man is near. He knows it.

Finally, after what seems like Millennia, he reaches his goal. There, in all its glory, stands a small, red, post box. The moon's glow reflecting off its shiny surface, giving the illusion that it's glowing. To the man, it is. He pulls a small envelope from his pocket. He holds it gingerly, it’s amazing, how something so small could make such a big difference. As he reaches out, his arm recoils. What if they don’t like it? Then he realises. All the great authors take risks. They all face being rejected. The man feels better. He slides the envelope into the mail slot. Then he leans forward, and whispers incredibly quietly. “Please like my story.”

And I sincerely hope you did.