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Creative Writing, Stories, Writing

The Prize


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He stumbles up to the heart of the room in his black tuxedo, facing the picture of Nobel. With his right hand, he smoothes his silver grey hair in place before he bows in honour. His face, scarred with age, tells his story of wisdom and experience.

The cover of his first book was blood red, like his son´s chest when he was cut to death on the pavement late on a Saturday afternoon. Holding him in his arms, crying for help, he couldn´t save him.

Having buried his son, he dropped the curtains, closed the doors and locked the windows, unable to live his life after losing another. His wife spoke, cried and begged, while he typed in silence, and so he wrote his first book, an honour to the death. Letter by letter he stumbled through his life, wrote the pieces we praise. There was death, there was pain, emptiness insane.

Seventy-nine years old, he gets the prize and His Majesty´s hand, and the audience claps theirs.
– What a great man!

Published in Australia during my membership at Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers Cente. Check out My Published Books.

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