The Dilemma

Dawson sat at the computer, one hand under his chin, and the index finger of the other tapping irksomely on the keyboard.

Not another contest... he thought phlegmatically.

Once again, he was presented with what was by now an all-too-familiar predicament. To write, or not to write? That is the question. And anyone who knew Dawson even slightly would be well aware that he bore hopelessly mixed feelings on virtually every subject in life. He groaned, rolled his eyes, and slapped the monotonously bouncing finger on the mouse. Why bother? One part of him suggested. It was an immutable fact that every time he thought it might be worthwhile to go for something that something went wrong one way or the other. This was especially true when it came to writing contests. How could he manage the story within the word limit? What if he missed something obvious during revision? What if everything he wrote was utter crap but he was too blinded by the "oh please God please just let me be good at something" to see past his own shortcomings? What if he missed one of the rules, like leaving out the word count? AGAIN? No, no, there was always something to get in the way of a fully satisfactory triumph, and this became such a matter of self-esteem that Dawson was on the verge of giving up entirely.

Dawson looked at the clock in the studio. Yeah, on top of everything else, he was at work at the radio-station, and should be doing his homework while monitoring the broadcast. Could he even finish a story in an hour?

And yet, amidst everything, there was that still small voice in his head that said, "Come on, give it a try. Don't give up." With another groan, Dawson ran a hand through his hair and peered grouchily at the computer screen. He checked his Writing.com email. Oh great, one entry. Now they're begging. I have to do something now.... even if its just ‘cause I love Matt. Ugh, really, I have to use stupid words like Spurious and Doucer??

Screw it, he decided. He scooched the rolly-chair closer to the keyboard. He wasn't gonna let any stupid voice tell him that he shouldn't try something. He might have quit golf, track and field, baseball, speech, guitar lessons, and other stuff, but Dawson was NOT a quitter. No stupid voice was going to stop him from doing what he loved. And what the heck? It wasn't like he had anything better to do!

So with a grimace of determination, Dawson rubbed his hands together and spread his fingers over the stained and battered keyboard that had been touched by countless fingers returning from bathrooms or nostrils unwashed, leaned over, and began to type.

And this is what he wrote.


Word count: 469