Rebecca's PenThe creative works of R.E.W.

About R.E.W

I am author, artist, history buff, wishing to share these three passions of mine with anyone who cares to read this blog. The main drive between these three deep interests of mine is imagination.

History isn't just people and events in a dusty book. Writing isn't just words in a tome. Art isn't just random images in a photograph, sketch or painting. I'll give you examples of what they really are.

I’m staring at the computer screen…trying to think…trying to concoct something.  Today is one of those cold, empty days when I’m abandoned by inspiration, devoid of creativity somehow.  And this is the last week before school begins!

Below is a small excerpt from a short story I started a short time ago.  The story follows a girl named Pat, in her uncle’s mysterious, book-filled home, out in the countryside.  A queer enchantment hangs about the house…

A stir resounded in the still air; a rustle of the curtains as though something had moved them.  My eyes flitted round the room until they lit on something—a small, feathery thing on the window.  A bird.  For one thing, the window was closed tightly, and I knew that no person in his right mind would allow any birds to live in a room without cage or feed in sight.  It simply did not happen.  And this bird was of exquisite, foreign appearance, brightly colored wings and a silvery head that twitched attentively towards me.  I let out a little sound that resembled a shriek, but that caught in my throat so I gawked at the creature almost stupidly.  It twitched its head towards me, and I jumped with absurd fright.  For some reason the idea of a bird in such a small room where it could easily fly at me somehow freaked me out.  An image from the old film, The Birds, flashed through my mind and I shuddered as I moved back and stumbled over the box.  I noticed a book lying on the little table near the door and I drew near it to see what it was about.  Audubon’s Birds. Somehow a connection made itself known in my mind—the bird, and the finely detailed foul in the book.  They were one and the same.  I looked from the picture to the fluttering life on the sill, disbelieving, and still gaping.  It couldn’t be!  I let out another strangled cry and slammed the book shut.  The bird vanished in a single instant, as though it had been nothing but air.  And then I ran.  I ran out into the hall and pulled the door shut behind me, gasping for breath, pale and desperately amazed.


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3 Responses to A Dry Well

  1. Dad says:

    When will you complete the story???
    You’ve left me hanging again.

  2. Megan says:

    Wow! How mysteriously captivating!

  3. Kayla says:

    haha, wow! :)

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