Author’s Note: Okay, so this is seriously important. Yes, with an asterisk. So you guys all know I want (badly) to become an author right? So this is one of my chapters (but called a ‘memory lane’) and I need some comments. I know it is short, I don’t know whether I should keep it like this though, but please, just read and review. The character (although I didn’t mention her here) is Sacrael Lyrtle.

So, enjoy<3

“You have an hour to finish this examination. You may begin.”

A rustle of papers echoed as each examinee rushed to flip the question paper over, every one of them filled with anticipation of what the theme would be this year.

I was one of them. I had prepared hard for this particular examination and was looking forward to it wholeheartedly, as it was my favourite. Creative Writing Assessment, the one that brought out my inner self.

I was a senior at this fine academy for teens like me who had a flare for writing—St. Claire’s Academy for Young Authors. Once I had gotten my results, and if I had clinched an A1 for Creative Writing, it would pave the way for me as a writer.

It was a privilege for me to further my education here.

To me, this was my entire future. If I failed, it could retake it again, but it would show that I wasn’t really qualified. I had to pull this off.

As I turned the paper, my breath was caught in my throat. We had two questions to choose from and printed in Arial were the words:

  1. Waiting (Supernatural)
  2. True Love (Romance)

I stared in disbelief at the two questions. Supernatural and romance were definitely not my forte when it came to writing. Looks like I would have to make-do.

I unzipped my pencil case and decided to write ‘Waiting’. Personally, it was because it was an extension of fiction and I would be much more comfortable with it. I penned down my plan and began to develop my characters on one of the four pieces of paper they had provided.

What would be the protagonist’s name be? Nicholas.

Plot? I have no idea.

Twist? No clue.

I glanced at my paper. Besides the name of the main character and a few crosses, the page was entirely blank. I could feel my cheeks burning in shame and embarrassment when the invigilator stopped by with the prickling sensation that his gaze was on me, before he walked off.

How was I going to be a writer like this, for crying out loud? I fumbled around in my brain, thinking of a catchy hook for an opening. But my memory was empty. I cried out silently in frustration. I desperately needed a miracle, something that would trigger my book bank, where all the good words in the novels I read were stored.

A breeze gently blew through the grilled windows and a voice whispered in my head.

Let me help you.

For a while, I didn’t know what possessed me, or more specifically, my right hand. Before a half an hour had passed, I had completed my essay. I was simply astounded by what I had written. Even I couldn’t believe I wrote that.

As I read it, I was so engrossed in it that I almost didn’t hear the invigilator announce that time was up.

As he went around collecting our papers, I thanked the voice in my mind. Was it all my imagination?

But all I knew was that it was, how impossible it may sound, a miracle.

As I look back, I really wished that I would have another chance, to write something better.

Maybe because I wanted to get in on my own.

Maybe it’s because I got help.

Or more possibly, it’s because I didn’t write that.

 

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