Five Hundred Words

           Five hundred words? How can I possibly write a coherent story in five hundred words (or less)? That’s so few words; and like a fool, I’ve just wasted thirty-one of them. You see, there’s this contest. They’ve given me a plot. Now, I only need to use it. But here I sit, in front of my keyboard, with a case of writer’s block that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, writing alliterative cliché’s that I know I’m better than. And now I only have four hundred and four more words to develop character and setting. Staring at this paragraph doesn’t seem to be helping. Perhaps I need to get out of the house. Perhaps I need to quit wasting words with unnecessary words like “unnecessary” and “perhaps.”

            I take the bus downtown, to the market, with the idea that getting lost in a crowd might somehow spark my creativity, might help to find my story. By the time I get there, I’m down to three hundred and thirty words. I’m walking around, proceeding about my business eyeballing trinkets and ignoring buskers, all the while waiting on a strange person to thrust a mysterious object into my hand. I know this will happen because that’s the plot that’s been decided upon in advance. And then it happens. With two hundred and seventy-eight words to go, I’m caught in a crowd, confronted suddenly by a strange person, who thrusts a mysterious object into my hand, and without a word, disappears. The mysterious object, “What is it?” you want to know. It’s an envelope, sealed, with a handful of words written on one side: “Don’t open until you get home.”

            So, I start for home, making my way out of the crowd, away from the market, towards the bus stop. I check the schedule: no bus for an hour. With only one hundred and eighty-seven words left, I don’t have time to wait. And so I run, down First Avenue, a right on Belmont, over the Morrison Bridge, east towards home. The envelope weighs heavy on my mind: What could possibly be in it? Why do I have to wait until I get home to open it? What would happen if I didn’t? I consider opening it right here and now, but with only one hundred and fifteen words left, I don’t dare chance it.

            My muscles ache, I’m drenched in sweat, and with only a mile to go, I’m stopped by someone I know. “What’s the hurry?” she asks.

            “No time to talk,” I yell in full stride, “I don’t have enough words left for you.”

            I know it was rude, but what can you do when you’re on a budget? I reach my house, unlock the door, rush to my desk, and go to open the envelope with thirty-one words to spare. I tear it apart and look inside, and there it is, exactly what I knew it would be: the end of this story, because I’m out of words…