The fire flickered lazily, casting a warm yet shadow-flecked glow upon the young man sitting thoughtfully in his cozy stuffed arm chair. A pencil lay loosely in his hand, its end resting gently against the pad of paper that sat on his lap. George Marcotti was thinking.

Earlier on in the day George had been walking through the woods behind his house, enjoying a pleasant breeze coming in from the south. Nothing in particular had been crossing his mind, until, for some unapparent reason, a thought struck him. How great would it be to write a story? It could be about anything, anyone, anywhere that he wanted. He could write exactly how he chose to. Besides, George didn’t have anything else occupying his time.

Now here he was, attempting to form some sort of story plot in his mind. However, his previously fabulous idea was not nearly as easy as he’d originally imagined. It had never transpired to George how difficult it could be to create just one story, let alone write it. Hmmm.
Minutes ticked by, and a half hour later George still sat brainstorming. Huh... perhaps he just needed some brain fuel. Like, a nice steaming mug of hot chocolate. That would do the trick. In fact, that sounded wonderful at the moment. George set his pad of paper as well as his pencil onto the miniature table beside him. He made his way to the kitchen, soon enough conjuring up a generous amount of hot chocolate lathered with whipped marshmallows. Taking a sip of the creamy liquid, leaning against the counter top, George Marcotti once again began to think. This time, however, was different; now, his mind was just wandering, where before he had been almost forcing himself to think.
George was remembering the time in his youth when he had first tasted cocoa... it had also been covered in marshmallow, though not quite as liberally. He remembered sniffing it experimentally, the steam rising up and around his once tiny rotund face. The globs of melted marshmallow had reminded him of mountains with snow all over the tops and clouds scudding around them...
Mountains. He looked out of the window over the sink, seeing in the distance a single mountain climbing high up the sky’s walls. It was a favorite view of his, though he would never dream of attempting to scale the colossal leviathan. Besides, he wasn’t nearly as brave as all of those heroes they had in movies and books.
Wait! That was exactly it! Maybe George himself wasn’t a courageous hero or anything particularly special, but he could make someone like that in his story. It could be about so many things; an adventure, a war, or just an ordinary life with many realistic difficulties. How about an adventure... George liked those types of tales better. Yes, that sounded right. An adventure through a mountain range, maybe as a search for treasure, a pursuit of foes? Or both?
George set his mug down excitedly. What about the character itself? A man... yes, a man of about George’s own age, possibly younger. His name could be David (the name George wished he had). David R. Michaels. That had a nice ring to it. He could be a simple guy suddenly thrust into a world of danger after something dramatic happens. Yes, yes; a group of bandits could burn his house and do something to his family, capture them, perhaps. No! What if David lived by himself, but his village was raided and destroyed, and every person that he had ever really cared for was either taken or badly injured with the exception of himself and a few others? That would work nicely with the story; he could form a band with others also affected by this certain group of bandits, and they could go out to hunt the brigands and bring them down. Along the way David could also meet a nice girl he falls in love with. George was a little iffy on that idea, however. (He wasn’t so good with or fond of the romantic bits.)
His hot chocolate long forgotten on the counter, a thin line of white and brown drawn over his top lip, George absent-mindedly paced back to his seat in the living room. He plopped himself down and eagerly picked up his pencil, bringing its point once again to the paper. Yet still the pencil did not move. Why not? George knew exactly what he was writing about.
Oh... he just didn’t know how to start it all. Would he need to plan this out more? He gazed at the paper, oblivious to the cocoa he tasted on his upper lip as he bit it thoughtfully. He didn’t want to go sketch every detail out; he was impatient to just write the story now. Except first he had to come up with a way to begin.
A few minutes later George had almost given up. Just as he was rising from his chair (with a resigned sigh), it slowly wormed its way onto his mind. The beginning. It was perfect! A smile formed on his face, soon becoming a wide, beaming grin. Elatedly pencil was yet again brought to paper.
There, in that soft, glowing fall light, in a modest cabin on the edge of a small wood, a young individual, George Michaels Marcotti, began to write.
The fire flickered lazily, casting a warm yet shadow-flecked glow upon the young man sitting thoughtfully...

JGM81192   JGM81192 wrote
on 1/4/2010 9:28:59 AM
Whoa, that was something I did not expect! Well done, and in a way, this totally relates to me...Mmmm hot cocoa...

StarPoet   StarPoet wrote
on 12/30/2009 4:19:32 AM
Now that's a lot better Moonrose! You made a great story even greater. Keep up the good work.

StarPoet   StarPoet wrote
on 12/8/2008 12:10:51 AM
Very well told. I like this for it's imagination and how you let your cahracter change emotions on the fly. One friendly tip; Break up your paragraphs better. It was an easy read, but it could have been easier still if you would have broke them up more. "Let the reader breathe", as I was told when I did the same thing in school.

Short Story
writing Moonrose
Life is an art. You are a masterpiece.
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Just editing and re-posting ^.^
A Word from the Writer
This was a homework assignment, just a small test for myself. It's usually very hard for me to keep a story this short, but I had to. This isn't my best, but I think it's okay... how about you?