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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Mystery
- Subject: Fairy Tale / Folk Tale
- Published: 08/04/2022
Bitten
Born 1980, M, from Exeter, United KingdomThe school bell rang. The main doors of Whitehill secondary opened, pushed by students eager to begin their summer holidays: six weeks of recuperation, late nights, lie-ins and days out. While most pupils chatted in their groups about the carefree summer ahead, I was preoccupied by an event that had happened earlier that day: my English grade. When the others dispersed on the grass surrounding the building to make more detailed plans with their friends, I headed to the car which waited by the curb. When my mother saw me she waved, leaned across and unlocked the passenger door. Her curly dyed blonde hair and tanned skin visible through the side window. Why couldn't she be late for once? I needed more time to work out what I was going to say. I got in and slammed the door. Mum wore a black sleeveless top, white shorts and white trainers. “Hi darling, how was school today?” she asked. “Fine,” I replied sharply, looking straight ahead and breathing out. She started the engine and drove off. The school gates were long gone and we had just driven past the old library twenty minutes from home, when mum asked in her high pitched voice: “Are you going to give me the silent treatment all the way home, Peter? I know something is wrong. Come on, what is it?” “I don't want to talk about it,” I answered. “It might help to talk about it. Sharing is caring,” she encouraged. “I got an F for my latest creative writing assignment,” I whispered. “You what?” exclaimed my mother, who took her eyes off the road and looked at me. Anger flashed in them for a moment. Enraged motorists beeped their horns. Mum raised a hand in apology, calmed herself and asked sweetly: “Is that in Robert Higgins’ English class again?” I nodded. “Would you like me or your father to have a word with him after the summer? Maybe a private tutor would help? I don't need to tell you that this looks really bad for you and your future.” “I know that mum. Could we change the subject, please?” We had stopped at traffic lights. She turned and smiled. Her teeth were brilliant white against her skin: “Of course, darling.”
My parents were famous travel writers whose words captivated their readers worldwide. It was hoped that I, their only son, would follow in their footsteps. However, their ambition for me was slowly slipping away. It was only due to my teacher's kind nature and his closeness to my parents that I was still in his class. Although mum’s agreement to change the subject in the car had given me hope that maybe I had gotten off lightly this time, her actions when we pulled into our driveway, marching up to the front door without a word, betrayed her true feelings: disappointment. I went to my room to get changed and waited to be called for dinner.
That evening, I did not eat much. Instead I nervously pushed the food around my plate. Dad, a medium sized man, with a receding hairline and a suntan which matched my mother’s, noticed my lack of appetite and asked: “Why aren't you eating, Peter? Is everything ok?” I tried for the second time that afternoon to evade the question. However, mum answered for me. At the end of her explanation dad turned to me wide-eyed: “Peter, is it true?” I nodded. “Well, maybe if you didn't play video games all the time and actually read a book, you might have enough imagination to get a better mark in Robert’s class. We are very disappointed. What have you got to say for yourself?” shouted dad. His brown skin had turned red. “Sorry, I will try harder next term,” I mumbled. Dad shook his head: “Make sure you do! Have you got any homework this summer?” “Yes, to write about my holiday,” I replied.
Dad's mood changed from angry to jovial: “Anyway, that is enough of a lecture from me. I'm sure you feel sorry and you already had a speech from your mother on the way home.” Sitting back down, he drummed the table and announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you've all been waiting for! He pulled out three tickets from his trouser pocket and fanned them with as much showmanship as a magician asking an audience member to pick a card. At their appearance my mum let out an “Ooooh!” The tickets were to Orlando Florida. I jumped up and grabbed my ticket excitedly. Suddenly reinvigorated, I hugged my parents: “Thank you! I won't let you down. I will write every day, I promise!”
A week later, we were in the car on our way to the airport. We got up early, but even the lack of sleep couldn’t diminish my excitement for the four weeks holiday. Every time I saw an aeroplane I wondered: ‘Was that ours?’ Before the flight, we had time to spare, so we looked around duty-free. Mum bought a romance novel, ‘Love Through The Window’, while dad and I gazed longingly at the new electronics and game systems. When our gate was called, I rushed ahead of my parents eager to board the plane. As we climbed into the sky, my worries over my school work, just like my home, were left far behind. When the duty-free trolley squeaked down the aisle, my parents allowed me to buy a handheld game on the condition that I would keep my promise. So I spent the remainder of the flight rescuing princesses and fighting dragons with every intention of keeping the deal. But as we landed at the airport, rented a car and finally arrived at our beautiful beachside apartment, I could already tell the promise was going to be broken. Besides, my parents had booked so many things for us to do, including trips to Disneyland and days at the beach, that writing never crossed my mind. I was having too much fun for it to be ruined by homework. Every time I was asked about it I lied and the holiday diary remained forgotten in my suitcase.
Throughout the holiday, I was repeatedly warned to keep the windows of my room closed and to use the air conditioning. Even with the protection of the mosquito net there was still a risk of being bitten by hungry insects in search of their next meal. However, one particularly hot night I was restless, unable to locate the air con remote control, so I opened the windows. The cool night breeze lowered the room temperature almost immediately and I drifted into a pleasant sleep. When I woke up in the morning, my arms and legs felt like they were on fire. I went to the bathroom mirror and saw that I was covered from head to toe with insect bites of various sizes. After cursing myself to be so stupid, I went to breakfast. When he saw me dad said: “That is what you get for disobeying us…” Mum applied antiseptic cream and luckily most of the bites faded except for some located on my left forearm. Curiously these bites looked as if someone had signed my skin: two rows of five and three additional ones which formed the tail of a signature. The longer they remained, the more concerned my mum became: “I don't like the look of those,” she stated one morning. “I am going to book a doctor appointment for when we get home next week.”
On our last evening in Florida, a strange event occurred. We were going out to eat at a local restaurant. I was in my room, sitting on the bed awaiting my parents call. To pass the time I played the last level of my game when suddenly I became hot and my bites started to itch. As if in a trance, I walked over to my suitcase, took out the holiday diary, opened it to a blank page and began to write. My hand moved automatically, with increasing speed, over the page forming words, sentences and paragraphs. My eyes could barely keep up. Eventually I blinked, coming back to reality and was shocked not only to see the diary opened in front of me but that it was completely full. l scanned the pages in disbelief. The words painted a vivid picture of our time on holiday. Mum knocked on the door and called: “Peter can you hear me? We will miss our reservation!” “Coming!” I shouted closing the diary with a snap, returned it to my suitcase and opened the door. “Didn't you hear me?” asked mum with a frown, “I was calling you. Are you alright?” I nodded: “Yes, I must have dozed off.” I walked past her to the car. We drove to ‘Sunny Bill's Steak and Seafood’ where the food was so good that I soon forgot about the strange incident.
The next day, on the way to the airport, we were quiet. Nobody wanted to leave this vibrant place, where we have made such happy memories. Dad turned on the radio. A few hours later we were home, relieved but jetlagged. Thankfully, my doctor appointment was late the next day, so we could all catch up on sleep.
When we arrived at my consultation, the doctor who examined my bites, looked puzzled and said: “I regret to inform you that in all my years of being a doctor I never saw anything like this. However, hope is not lost. I have a colleague who is an expert in tropical diseases. Maybe he can help us to solve this little mystery. I can refer you, Peter, but it might take a while. He is highly thought of in his field.” My mother replied: “Thank you Dr Finn. We will be waiting.” “Sorry I couldn't be of more help” he called after us as we left.
School started. I sat in Mr Higgins classroom. He was reading through our holiday diaries. Occasionally he chuckled to himself at some funny event or detail. He picked up mine from the pile on his desk. After a few minutes, he stopped and beckoned me to him. I could feel the eyes of my classmates watching me as I walked to the front of the room. My face felt hot: “Yes sir?” I whispered nervously. Mr Higgins lowered his voice: “Peter, tell me the truth. Did you write this?” I replied: “Yes. Anything wrong?” “Wrong? There is nothing wrong with it. In fact it's the best work you have ever produced.” He handed it back to me. I walked to my desk before I opened it. When I did I was overjoyed. In one of the page margins, he had written: ‘Good work! Keep it up!” He also had drawn a big red smiley face. My work steadily improved. For one piece I even received an ‘A Star’. My parents were delighted, but as baffled as I was by my extraordinary progress.
Three months later, my appointment arrived in the post from Dr Edward Morrison, tropical medicine and rare disease specialist. We were to go to his private clinic in Harley Street the following Friday. On the day, my dad and I took the train to the nearest station and walked the short distance to the address. We entered an old house and filled in some paperwork. After a short wait we were escorted into a large room furnished with a green carpet and brown bookcases piled high with hardback books. I thought it looked more like someone’s study rather than a private clinic. At the far end of the room there was a medium size oak desk. Behind it, an elderly man was typing on a computer. The lady who escorted us in cleared her throat and said: “Peter Tyler and his father are here to see you.” The man looked up and replied: “Thank you Jenny.” Without a word, the woman left the room, closing the door behind her.
Dr Morrison stood up, came around and greeted us. He was tall, with grey hair: “Hello Peter, it is very nice to meet you, young man. I am Doctor Morrison, but please call me Edward.” “Nice to meet you,” I replied. He turned to my father and added: “Nice to meet you, sir.” “Likewise,” answered my dad, sitting himself in a chair by the door. Then Doctor Morrison turned his attention back to me and stated, in a calm voice: “Dr Finn, at the hospital, told me that you had some unidentifiable insect bites.” I nodded. “Can you please show them to me?” “Of course,” I replied, rolling up my left sleeve and holding my arm out to be examined. He put on a pair of wireframe spectacles and peered at them in silence. Then, applying gentle pressure to the bites, he asked: “Does it hurt?”. “No,” I replied. “Has anything changed in your life since you were bitten?” I considered his question and then answered: “My creative writing.” “What do you mean?” he inquired. “Well, I used to struggle in English class but now I am achieving top marks and being praised for my imagination.” He listened to my explanation with interest. “Do you think the two might be connected?” I inquired. “That is exactly what I endeavour to find out, could you do something for me?” “Yes, of course.” He took me to his desk, told me to sit and gave me a blank sheet of paper and a pencil. “I would like you to write something. It can be anything.” When I grabbed hold of the pencil, my skin immediately felt hot and the bites itched. Before I realised what was happening, both sides of the sheet of paper were covered in writing. Afterwards, my temperature returned to normal and the itching stopped. I looked in disbelief at the page. Dr Morrison sat behind me and watched: “Extraordinary,” he whispered. Getting up, he took the sheet of paper and scanned it. “Extraordinary,” he repeated. Seeing my bewildered expression he clarified: “Peter, have you ever heard the expression ‘got the bug’? “No, never,” I admitted. “What does it mean?” “It’s when someone is gripped by a sudden passion for something such as travel or theatre. I thought it was just a figure of speech, until now. It is my belief that what you were bitten by in Florida was a ‘Writing Bug’.” When I stared at him blankly, he elaborated: “When I'm not seeing patients I travel to places such as Asia and the Far East. I do this to be better at my job. Some of the indigenous people have told me stories about an insect which, if bitten by it, you get an overwhelming urge to write. The afflicted person often has no memory of this and can produce vividly descriptive writing using vocabulary they didn't even know they possessed. No one has actually seen one and descriptions vary but from what I can gather it is about the size of a cockroach with two sets of feather like wings and four rows of teeth resembling the tips of a quill pen. In English it is known as ‘Writing Bug’. In my opinion, you have been given an extraordinary gift and you should be in no rush to get rid of it. But the bites should go down of their own accord in a few months.” He looked at his watch: “If you excuse me, I have other patients to see. Thank you very much for coming in.” We thanked him for his time and left the clinic.
Outside the building my father, who had remained silent throughout my examination and diagnosis, suddenly exclaimed angrily: “Well, that was a waste of time. ‘Writing Bug’, that is the most preposterous thing I have ever heard. Dr Morrison is a time waster. A con man taking advantage of people.” “How would you explain the writing, dad?” I asked him. “A cheap trick to justify his astronomical fees.” When we arrived home and told my mother, who was anxiously waiting for news, she agreed with dad and wanted to get a second opinion. However, their work schedule became so busy that it was never organised. While my parents had dismissed Dr Morrison’s diagnosis as pure fantasy, to my mind it made sense. How else could my new found talent be explained?
A few years later, I left school and went to Pioneer University to study English, much to the delight of my parents who hugged me and said: “We knew you could do it!” During my three year course I excelled in my studies graduating with honours. I had no shortage of job offers from newspapers and magazines, which gave me valuable experience for working in the media.
Today, all my bites have long gone but my enthusiasm for creative writing has remained like the after effects from some medication. I manage a website called ‘The path less travelled’. It informs the readers about areas which are not your typical tourist destinations. In order to give our readers accurate information, I must travel a lot and my parents are happy to put money toward the air fare as I have now become what they have always wanted, a travel writer. I bring back souvenirs from these trips, which adorn the walls of my office. I have ceremonial masks, statues and necklaces. My latest addition, a picture that I found at a market, now hangs in a black frame across from my desk. It is a hand drawn depiction of the elusive creature that gave me the ability that I treasure: The Writing Bug.
Bitten(Christopher Long)
The school bell rang. The main doors of Whitehill secondary opened, pushed by students eager to begin their summer holidays: six weeks of recuperation, late nights, lie-ins and days out. While most pupils chatted in their groups about the carefree summer ahead, I was preoccupied by an event that had happened earlier that day: my English grade. When the others dispersed on the grass surrounding the building to make more detailed plans with their friends, I headed to the car which waited by the curb. When my mother saw me she waved, leaned across and unlocked the passenger door. Her curly dyed blonde hair and tanned skin visible through the side window. Why couldn't she be late for once? I needed more time to work out what I was going to say. I got in and slammed the door. Mum wore a black sleeveless top, white shorts and white trainers. “Hi darling, how was school today?” she asked. “Fine,” I replied sharply, looking straight ahead and breathing out. She started the engine and drove off. The school gates were long gone and we had just driven past the old library twenty minutes from home, when mum asked in her high pitched voice: “Are you going to give me the silent treatment all the way home, Peter? I know something is wrong. Come on, what is it?” “I don't want to talk about it,” I answered. “It might help to talk about it. Sharing is caring,” she encouraged. “I got an F for my latest creative writing assignment,” I whispered. “You what?” exclaimed my mother, who took her eyes off the road and looked at me. Anger flashed in them for a moment. Enraged motorists beeped their horns. Mum raised a hand in apology, calmed herself and asked sweetly: “Is that in Robert Higgins’ English class again?” I nodded. “Would you like me or your father to have a word with him after the summer? Maybe a private tutor would help? I don't need to tell you that this looks really bad for you and your future.” “I know that mum. Could we change the subject, please?” We had stopped at traffic lights. She turned and smiled. Her teeth were brilliant white against her skin: “Of course, darling.”
My parents were famous travel writers whose words captivated their readers worldwide. It was hoped that I, their only son, would follow in their footsteps. However, their ambition for me was slowly slipping away. It was only due to my teacher's kind nature and his closeness to my parents that I was still in his class. Although mum’s agreement to change the subject in the car had given me hope that maybe I had gotten off lightly this time, her actions when we pulled into our driveway, marching up to the front door without a word, betrayed her true feelings: disappointment. I went to my room to get changed and waited to be called for dinner.
That evening, I did not eat much. Instead I nervously pushed the food around my plate. Dad, a medium sized man, with a receding hairline and a suntan which matched my mother’s, noticed my lack of appetite and asked: “Why aren't you eating, Peter? Is everything ok?” I tried for the second time that afternoon to evade the question. However, mum answered for me. At the end of her explanation dad turned to me wide-eyed: “Peter, is it true?” I nodded. “Well, maybe if you didn't play video games all the time and actually read a book, you might have enough imagination to get a better mark in Robert’s class. We are very disappointed. What have you got to say for yourself?” shouted dad. His brown skin had turned red. “Sorry, I will try harder next term,” I mumbled. Dad shook his head: “Make sure you do! Have you got any homework this summer?” “Yes, to write about my holiday,” I replied.
Dad's mood changed from angry to jovial: “Anyway, that is enough of a lecture from me. I'm sure you feel sorry and you already had a speech from your mother on the way home.” Sitting back down, he drummed the table and announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you've all been waiting for! He pulled out three tickets from his trouser pocket and fanned them with as much showmanship as a magician asking an audience member to pick a card. At their appearance my mum let out an “Ooooh!” The tickets were to Orlando Florida. I jumped up and grabbed my ticket excitedly. Suddenly reinvigorated, I hugged my parents: “Thank you! I won't let you down. I will write every day, I promise!”
A week later, we were in the car on our way to the airport. We got up early, but even the lack of sleep couldn’t diminish my excitement for the four weeks holiday. Every time I saw an aeroplane I wondered: ‘Was that ours?’ Before the flight, we had time to spare, so we looked around duty-free. Mum bought a romance novel, ‘Love Through The Window’, while dad and I gazed longingly at the new electronics and game systems. When our gate was called, I rushed ahead of my parents eager to board the plane. As we climbed into the sky, my worries over my school work, just like my home, were left far behind. When the duty-free trolley squeaked down the aisle, my parents allowed me to buy a handheld game on the condition that I would keep my promise. So I spent the remainder of the flight rescuing princesses and fighting dragons with every intention of keeping the deal. But as we landed at the airport, rented a car and finally arrived at our beautiful beachside apartment, I could already tell the promise was going to be broken. Besides, my parents had booked so many things for us to do, including trips to Disneyland and days at the beach, that writing never crossed my mind. I was having too much fun for it to be ruined by homework. Every time I was asked about it I lied and the holiday diary remained forgotten in my suitcase.
Throughout the holiday, I was repeatedly warned to keep the windows of my room closed and to use the air conditioning. Even with the protection of the mosquito net there was still a risk of being bitten by hungry insects in search of their next meal. However, one particularly hot night I was restless, unable to locate the air con remote control, so I opened the windows. The cool night breeze lowered the room temperature almost immediately and I drifted into a pleasant sleep. When I woke up in the morning, my arms and legs felt like they were on fire. I went to the bathroom mirror and saw that I was covered from head to toe with insect bites of various sizes. After cursing myself to be so stupid, I went to breakfast. When he saw me dad said: “That is what you get for disobeying us…” Mum applied antiseptic cream and luckily most of the bites faded except for some located on my left forearm. Curiously these bites looked as if someone had signed my skin: two rows of five and three additional ones which formed the tail of a signature. The longer they remained, the more concerned my mum became: “I don't like the look of those,” she stated one morning. “I am going to book a doctor appointment for when we get home next week.”
On our last evening in Florida, a strange event occurred. We were going out to eat at a local restaurant. I was in my room, sitting on the bed awaiting my parents call. To pass the time I played the last level of my game when suddenly I became hot and my bites started to itch. As if in a trance, I walked over to my suitcase, took out the holiday diary, opened it to a blank page and began to write. My hand moved automatically, with increasing speed, over the page forming words, sentences and paragraphs. My eyes could barely keep up. Eventually I blinked, coming back to reality and was shocked not only to see the diary opened in front of me but that it was completely full. l scanned the pages in disbelief. The words painted a vivid picture of our time on holiday. Mum knocked on the door and called: “Peter can you hear me? We will miss our reservation!” “Coming!” I shouted closing the diary with a snap, returned it to my suitcase and opened the door. “Didn't you hear me?” asked mum with a frown, “I was calling you. Are you alright?” I nodded: “Yes, I must have dozed off.” I walked past her to the car. We drove to ‘Sunny Bill's Steak and Seafood’ where the food was so good that I soon forgot about the strange incident.
The next day, on the way to the airport, we were quiet. Nobody wanted to leave this vibrant place, where we have made such happy memories. Dad turned on the radio. A few hours later we were home, relieved but jetlagged. Thankfully, my doctor appointment was late the next day, so we could all catch up on sleep.
When we arrived at my consultation, the doctor who examined my bites, looked puzzled and said: “I regret to inform you that in all my years of being a doctor I never saw anything like this. However, hope is not lost. I have a colleague who is an expert in tropical diseases. Maybe he can help us to solve this little mystery. I can refer you, Peter, but it might take a while. He is highly thought of in his field.” My mother replied: “Thank you Dr Finn. We will be waiting.” “Sorry I couldn't be of more help” he called after us as we left.
School started. I sat in Mr Higgins classroom. He was reading through our holiday diaries. Occasionally he chuckled to himself at some funny event or detail. He picked up mine from the pile on his desk. After a few minutes, he stopped and beckoned me to him. I could feel the eyes of my classmates watching me as I walked to the front of the room. My face felt hot: “Yes sir?” I whispered nervously. Mr Higgins lowered his voice: “Peter, tell me the truth. Did you write this?” I replied: “Yes. Anything wrong?” “Wrong? There is nothing wrong with it. In fact it's the best work you have ever produced.” He handed it back to me. I walked to my desk before I opened it. When I did I was overjoyed. In one of the page margins, he had written: ‘Good work! Keep it up!” He also had drawn a big red smiley face. My work steadily improved. For one piece I even received an ‘A Star’. My parents were delighted, but as baffled as I was by my extraordinary progress.
Three months later, my appointment arrived in the post from Dr Edward Morrison, tropical medicine and rare disease specialist. We were to go to his private clinic in Harley Street the following Friday. On the day, my dad and I took the train to the nearest station and walked the short distance to the address. We entered an old house and filled in some paperwork. After a short wait we were escorted into a large room furnished with a green carpet and brown bookcases piled high with hardback books. I thought it looked more like someone’s study rather than a private clinic. At the far end of the room there was a medium size oak desk. Behind it, an elderly man was typing on a computer. The lady who escorted us in cleared her throat and said: “Peter Tyler and his father are here to see you.” The man looked up and replied: “Thank you Jenny.” Without a word, the woman left the room, closing the door behind her.
Dr Morrison stood up, came around and greeted us. He was tall, with grey hair: “Hello Peter, it is very nice to meet you, young man. I am Doctor Morrison, but please call me Edward.” “Nice to meet you,” I replied. He turned to my father and added: “Nice to meet you, sir.” “Likewise,” answered my dad, sitting himself in a chair by the door. Then Doctor Morrison turned his attention back to me and stated, in a calm voice: “Dr Finn, at the hospital, told me that you had some unidentifiable insect bites.” I nodded. “Can you please show them to me?” “Of course,” I replied, rolling up my left sleeve and holding my arm out to be examined. He put on a pair of wireframe spectacles and peered at them in silence. Then, applying gentle pressure to the bites, he asked: “Does it hurt?”. “No,” I replied. “Has anything changed in your life since you were bitten?” I considered his question and then answered: “My creative writing.” “What do you mean?” he inquired. “Well, I used to struggle in English class but now I am achieving top marks and being praised for my imagination.” He listened to my explanation with interest. “Do you think the two might be connected?” I inquired. “That is exactly what I endeavour to find out, could you do something for me?” “Yes, of course.” He took me to his desk, told me to sit and gave me a blank sheet of paper and a pencil. “I would like you to write something. It can be anything.” When I grabbed hold of the pencil, my skin immediately felt hot and the bites itched. Before I realised what was happening, both sides of the sheet of paper were covered in writing. Afterwards, my temperature returned to normal and the itching stopped. I looked in disbelief at the page. Dr Morrison sat behind me and watched: “Extraordinary,” he whispered. Getting up, he took the sheet of paper and scanned it. “Extraordinary,” he repeated. Seeing my bewildered expression he clarified: “Peter, have you ever heard the expression ‘got the bug’? “No, never,” I admitted. “What does it mean?” “It’s when someone is gripped by a sudden passion for something such as travel or theatre. I thought it was just a figure of speech, until now. It is my belief that what you were bitten by in Florida was a ‘Writing Bug’.” When I stared at him blankly, he elaborated: “When I'm not seeing patients I travel to places such as Asia and the Far East. I do this to be better at my job. Some of the indigenous people have told me stories about an insect which, if bitten by it, you get an overwhelming urge to write. The afflicted person often has no memory of this and can produce vividly descriptive writing using vocabulary they didn't even know they possessed. No one has actually seen one and descriptions vary but from what I can gather it is about the size of a cockroach with two sets of feather like wings and four rows of teeth resembling the tips of a quill pen. In English it is known as ‘Writing Bug’. In my opinion, you have been given an extraordinary gift and you should be in no rush to get rid of it. But the bites should go down of their own accord in a few months.” He looked at his watch: “If you excuse me, I have other patients to see. Thank you very much for coming in.” We thanked him for his time and left the clinic.
Outside the building my father, who had remained silent throughout my examination and diagnosis, suddenly exclaimed angrily: “Well, that was a waste of time. ‘Writing Bug’, that is the most preposterous thing I have ever heard. Dr Morrison is a time waster. A con man taking advantage of people.” “How would you explain the writing, dad?” I asked him. “A cheap trick to justify his astronomical fees.” When we arrived home and told my mother, who was anxiously waiting for news, she agreed with dad and wanted to get a second opinion. However, their work schedule became so busy that it was never organised. While my parents had dismissed Dr Morrison’s diagnosis as pure fantasy, to my mind it made sense. How else could my new found talent be explained?
A few years later, I left school and went to Pioneer University to study English, much to the delight of my parents who hugged me and said: “We knew you could do it!” During my three year course I excelled in my studies graduating with honours. I had no shortage of job offers from newspapers and magazines, which gave me valuable experience for working in the media.
Today, all my bites have long gone but my enthusiasm for creative writing has remained like the after effects from some medication. I manage a website called ‘The path less travelled’. It informs the readers about areas which are not your typical tourist destinations. In order to give our readers accurate information, I must travel a lot and my parents are happy to put money toward the air fare as I have now become what they have always wanted, a travel writer. I bring back souvenirs from these trips, which adorn the walls of my office. I have ceremonial masks, statues and necklaces. My latest addition, a picture that I found at a market, now hangs in a black frame across from my desk. It is a hand drawn depiction of the elusive creature that gave me the ability that I treasure: The Writing Bug.
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- 6
Gerald R Gioglio
09/03/2022Hmm, the writing bug? Yes, please. Nice work, happy StoryStar day.
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Kevin Hughes
09/03/2022Aloha Chris,
Well it looks like all of us have been bitten...twice! Once by your lovely story, and the second time by the Writing Bug. All of us got a little bit of "bug juice" to go write some more because of this story. Well done!
Smiles, Kevin
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Shirley Smothers
09/03/2022What a creative story. I need to find this bug. If your story was in a book it would be "A page turner."
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Lillian Kazmierczak
09/03/2022Christopher, that was awesome. I need to find that bug...please send its local. Lol! That was a terrific, waht a an interesting concept. I really enjoyed that.Congratulations on short story star of the day.
Reply
COMMENTS (8)