English Short Story: He's Not Racist

English Short Story: He’s Not Racist But…

You hear the old grandfather clock strike one in the morning in the eerily quiet household, the only other sound was that of keys on an old typewriter rapidly keying letters and the ding as a new line was started. You could have used a computer, or even hand written the article, but there was something about your father’s typewriter that was comforting, inspiring. Looking up from your article, almost complete for the Sydney Morning Herald, you started to notice how much of a mess you had made, focusing so badly on your project. To your left was a half-eaten sandwich from yesterday’s lunch, sitting behind it was your tea from breakfast the previous morning; the milk has started to curdle. To your right were piles and piles of paper, mostly all the drafts that you kept starting over.

Nothing to say sorry for: Howard. With an air of disgust, you slowly take your glasses off and walk out of the office, thinking you might make yourself a calming cup of tea before heading off to bed. You could only hope that this article is accepted. For the past 7 years since you graduated from high school, every single article you have written had been turned down. Their excuses range from the pitying “we just don’t have the space to feature it” to the crude, blunt, “no one wants to hear from an Abo.” After so many years and so many tries, this might be the