How not to write a story.

You’re walking through a field. It’s early morning and you’re hungry. Desperately hungry.  What you want is a story, so badly you can feel it in your fingers and on your lips. Mmmm.

You hear a rustle, a faint crunch in the distance, look toward the sound and see it: a story. It stands where the field meets the thickness of the forest, unaware that you’re watching. You take a step, too heavily. It looks up and your eyes meet. You stop, and it stays.

“Here little story,” you whisper, and take small, soft steps. You get close enough to see the breeze twitch its nostrils.

“Nice story. Come here little story. I won’t hurt you.”

You watch the story turn away to bolt into the forest as if in slow motion. You leap, catch a slender hind leg, and you both tumble to the ground. The struggle disorients you. You don’t know what part of the story you’re holding, but the more you grasp, the more you feel it slip until it breaks free, and is gone. You lie on the ground, panting, sweating, and angry, and know that if you’d held on to that story, you would have crushed the life out of it.

That story is gone into the forest, where it alerts its story friends to stay hidden.

Don’t forget to share this via , , Google+, Pinterest, LinkedIn, Buffer, , Tumblr, Reddit, StumbleUpon and Delicious.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *