The writer had set herself a task. She would write a story each week, a piece of microfiction, based around a number. She would apply herself with the same discipline as an athlete and the same dedication as a scientist. Only through practice and determination would she realise her dream of being a real writer.
Except by the fifth week she had a problem – working five days a week at her day-job, traveling home late, battling the small but insistent details of life, her creative energy was running low.
She was out of ideas.
She wandered the city, looking at skyscrapers and office towers, at the faces of those in coffee shops and on public transport. She saw the well-dressed rich and the harried working poor. She saw moments of anxiety and moments of content. She saw couples in love and couples in denial. The more she wandered, the less important she herself became, just one more human being in these vast, anonymous metropolis.
At last she came to the Botanic Gardens of the city. She lay down on the grass and stared into the summer sky. A leaf fluttered to the ground and landed by her side. It had five points. Five birds rose from the palm trees and circled over her. Five friends sat laughing on the lawn. Her creativity had not gone – its source was all around her and she had learned to see again.
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An exercise in micro-fiction – stories which run from zero to fifty
© 2014 M. C. Dulac