Writing challenge: A new POV

Every writer has a comfort zone, for me, I write in the first person, that is where I feel the most productive and where I think my writing tends to thrive. Another author I know, Gretta Fryer, writes in the third person, and in conversations we’ve had has mentioned that she can’t imagine writing in the first person. In turn, I’ve said that I can’t imagine writing how she does, that third person felt like an unnatural way to tell my story.

So here’s that challenge I put myself up to this week, I challenged myself to write from an unfamiliar point of view. I found this a struggle, four hundred words, which would normally take me a short amount of time, took me three days and an infinite amount of hair-pulling to finish. In the end, I find that I’m proud of the end result, no matter how much of a struggle it was to get to.

I also used this challenge as an opportunity to world-build for my next project, to find my feet in the world that’s in my head, and to introduce the characters and creatures to the written page. This too provided a challenge and definitely showed me that as of right now I’m not ready to start writing this project and there is more I need to define and work out before I can make the full dive into this twisted world, but nonetheless her is my attempt at writing third person.

Less than a mile outside what used to be the small ski town of Steamboat Springs on the western slope of Colorado the trees leered over the frail form of Penny Keres where she lay on the forest floor. Ever the fateful servants, the soldiers of the mother the trees stand tall, watching, waiting with baited breath as the girl began to stir.

Penny takes a labored breath, coughing as she pushes her head up from the ground a mixture of gravel and twigs pressed into her cheek as she drops onto her back. The girl coughs harder, the sound rattling through the army of trees around her.

Finally she wheezes a breath before pushing onto her knees, the white of her medical uniform has been dulled by the mixture of dirt and mud as she sits on her heels. Her breathing hitches as she takes stock of the trees around her. “Shit.” Is the first word she murmurs as she scrambles towards a fallen log, She presses her back into the wood, brushing off the small brown insect that makes its way up her leg.

The wind whistles through the trees, an ominous warning as Penny scans the quickly darkening forest around her for any of nature's warriors. She slowly pushes herself up to peak over the moss-covered log, watching the depth of the trees for any sign of movement before slinking back down using it for what coverage she can.

She brings up a hand, covering her right eye to hide the blue light that flows as her visual optic wakes.

Good evening, Penny.

The system greets, updates flashing across her vision.

Defibrillator implant disabled, restart recommended.

“Of course it is,” Penny grumbles, rolling her eyes as if the display wouldn’t move with her line of vision. “It’s not like that would be useful or anything. Now where am I?”

Penny blinks as a map of the area fills her vision. “How the hell did I get all the way out here?” She sighs, pushing up from her hide as the map traces a path toward town.

A snap bounces off the trees, the sound a mix of dislocating joints and breaking twigs freezes Penny in her tracks. Her stomach turns, bile rising in her throat as she slowly turns.

From a distance, the figure across from her could be seen as a woman in mourning, a long veil split over her pale face, dark skirts standing starch straight around her, but with a closer look, it couldn’t be farther from the truth. 

The woman has not seen the light of life in a long while, the veil and skirt instead are made of the dark vines mother nature used to keep her figure mobile. The figure, a Matron Penny recognizes instantly takes a shuddering ‘step’ towards her. 

The vines crackle with the sound of horrifyingly rapid growth as they force the woman forward. Vines trailing from her mouth contract, filling the useless lungs with air before a sickening scream echoes off the trees and despite the heavy feeling that fills her limbs as the song lulls her to sleep. 

Penny runs.

About the author

Milla Picket is a Senior, and this is her first year writing for the Poudre Press. In her free time, she is involved in the school's choir and theatre department. She is also a writer currently working on her first fantasy novel for publication.