text: This is a short story about a frustrated, washed-up writer I had to write for my year 12 English class. We were supposed to incorporate some amount of metafiction into the story. 564 words. Feedback would be nice. **The Abyss** The whiteness is blinding as I sit alone in the dark, mug in hand, gazing upon the glowing blank screen, pondering the question - how did this happen? Only yesterday, it seems, I stood upon the velveted stage, that little gold statuette held tight within my grip, all lights on me, all eyes on me... the glory. The ecstasy of prestige, the sweet perfection of vanity, the golden beams of eminence and esteem. And now, I sit alone and empty. A sad, old, fat man with an empty mind and a full belly. I’d resolved to write something original... something real and tangible. Something beyond cheap melodrama or sappy romantic-comedy drivel. Something visceral, something powerful, something *alive*. That first win was something special, but since then it’s all been a gush of commercialized, focus-room trite. Guidelines and checklists. Quantified and collated, maximised for optimum profit and tailored for critical success. Constructed, assembled, manufactured with clinical precision... never *crafted*. So, I stare at this blank screen and tell myself that I will make an attempt at real art. At something more than titillating loglines and sizzling taglines. An honest work. But what about? Well, let’s start with a ‘fade in’, at least. The keys click and clack as my fingers tap against them in rapid succession, a little pulse of unearned optimism coursing through my mind, a flare of naïve excitement lighting up a chasm of empty contemplation and despondent reflection. What was the last idea? Ah, yes, the story of a man left bitter and disillusioned with society following the death of his wife in a tragic train crash. There’s an idea. I can do something with that. He’s depressed, angry, worn down. He spirals down into sociopathy and misandry... he’s pissed off that the city council didn’t spend money on creating newer, safer public transport... so he gathers a bunch of guns and takes city council hostage! And there it goes. Another idea burned. Made flash and sizzle. Or in other words, garbage. You see what they’ve done to me? No. I need to think. *Really think*. Draw upon the world, tap into the faces that pass by every day. We are all worn down in our own way, we all have our stories of the pain and the cold. I need that. Last night. As I sat under the dim, dusty incandescent bulbs of the bar, sipping at some syrupy cocktail, I gazed upon the faces around the room. I ignored the usual patrons, but someone caught my eye. A woman in a uniform. She sat alone at a booth, drinking bourbon. Her coat was decorated, covered in brass and ribbons. She sat with a straight back, but her shoulders were relaxed, and she didn’t seem tense. She had the posture of a proud and strong woman. A fighter. A soldier. But her eyes said something else. They were empty, gazing into an abyss of cold and dark, a space between the mind and reality. I wondered what had happened. She didn’t seem scarred, not in the way so many veterans are. This was someone who’d thrived in the chaos of war - her strength forged amidst fire and fury. She’d been a leader. So what was that emptiness in her eyes? What was that abyss? Maybe that’s the story I need to write. The story of her abyss.