Daily Writing Exercise

I haven’t had the opportunity to do much creative writing at work the last few years, and I’ve finally reached the point where I would really like to just write again. I’ve decided to make sure I make the time each day to write for at least half an hour. No real rules besides to just write and not dwell much on getting that one sentence just perfect. Ages ago at University, my Creative Writing teacher, Cynn Chadwick, got across, if nothing else, that the most important part of being a writer is to just write, and not let the anxiety of the blank page overpower you. So here’s my first little story and hopefully I can keep this up mostly daily:

The cool night was sobering. I felt pride in breaking from the haze as I entered the car park. I knew how to moderate myself. I was good to go. The drive home was nothing to worry about. I should have had a few more drinks.
Illuminated by the single street lamp in the area, I saw a small bundle in the empty stall next to my car. Instantly I felt a surge of childish excitement, a brief glimmer of that naivete from ages long past, as if this treasure I found came with no strings attached. But there are always strings. Some we attach ourselves. Some have been set by others.
It was a wallet, fairly full looking, given its bulge and nearly open state. The markings on the leather were unfamiliar, perhaps the emblem of some hip local store’s brand. Picking it up, it unfolded in my hand. No driver’s license. The strings were being attached. It felt quite weighty, but I certainly couldn’t keep it. I couldn’t leave it there, because someone might take it! Bringing it to the police would be so far out of the way… why did I pick this thing up again?
What kind of wallet was this anyway? There were absolutely no cards inside. Opening up the billfold, it turned out there was no money inside as well. It was stuffed with paper scraps, all neatly folded. I pulled one out and unfolded it. There was a date, three days away. I pulled out another. It was blank. In fact, all the rest seemed blank.
I gave the car park one last look over before unlocking my car and heading in. “Guess I’ll drop this off.” It seemed like no big loss to whoever had owned it anyway, given its contents. That was before I understood the true context of those contents.

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