The New Year Specter: A Poignant Story of a Struggling Writer
- Nick Ho
- Jan 9
- 4 min read
Updated: Feb 17
[🎧 The audio version is available at the bottom of the page.] ⬇
(Scene: Outside Bob’s House, somewhere in London, New Year’s Day.)
(Snow falls gently, blanketing the street in white. YOU, a Man in your 40s, stand at the doorstep of a large, well-lit house. You clutch a bag of presents and a tray of food and drinks, your face a mix of anticipation and hesitation.)
(Suddenly, a MYSTERIOUS FIGURE in a dark cloak emerges from the shadows.)
Mysterious Figure: Tony, don’t ring the bell.
You: (startled, stepping back) Who are you?
Mysterious Figure: A friend. I’ve brought you a New Year’s gift.
You: (skeptical) What kind of gift?
Mysterious Figure: The truth you deserve to know. But first, send a message to your friends. Tell them you’re not coming—something urgent has come up.
You: (hesitating) Is this some kind of joke?
Mysterious Figure: Do as I say, and you’ll understand.
(You glance at the house, uncertainty flickering across your face, then pull out your phone. After sending a message, the figure gestures. In an instant, you both pass through the door like shadows.)
(Inside Bob’s House, the living room is warm and festive. A Christmas tree still sparkles in the corner, though it’s New Year’s Day. Around a lavishly set dining table, three couples—BOB, FRED, KENNY, and their WIVES—chat and laugh. You and the Mysterious Figure stand invisible, watching.)
Fred: (checking his phone) Tony’s not showing up. Who didn’t see that coming?
Kenny: How’s he doing lately? Feels like he’s been keeping to himself.
Fred: Same old Tony—acting too busy or mysterious. But what’s he really got going on?
Bob: (pouring wine, inspecting it) Probably working some dead-end job. Or unemployed. Same story—going from A to B, then back to A. Stuck in his own loop.
Fred: Honestly, it’s better this way. Three couples and just him? That would’ve been awkward.
Bob: (taking a sip, savoring it) Exactly. He’d be embarrassed just sitting here.
Fred: I mean, I’ve been married ten years now. It’s hard to relate to someone who's not married. I keep the friendship alive out of nostalgia, really.
Kenny: Hey, Bob, is Tony still chasing that writer dream of his?
Kenny’s Wife: A writer? What does he write?
Kenny: Some novel, I think. Bob probably knows more.
Bob’s Wife: He's not really a writer, is he? To call yourself that, you've got to have something published—like my husband.
Bob: (with a smirk) Tony writes “literature.” Evergreen topics, he says. But it’s not exactly marketable.
Kenny: Still dreaming, huh?
Bob: He should’ve given up years ago. If he had any real talent, his stubbornness would’ve made him famous by now. You can’t keep fooling yourself. After 40, it’s time to get serious.
Fred: Now, Bob—that’s a writer. At least he writes what sells.
Fred’s Wife: And a successful one, too! All my friends read your relationship column.
Bob: (shrugging) I just write to pay the bills—blogs, recipes, fortune-telling, satire. You name it. Literature? That’s for dreamers who like being broke.
Kenny: Be honest—how’s Tony’s writing?
Bob: (sipping his wine) Amateur at best. I told him his novels wouldn’t sell, but he never listened. That’s why he's poor, and I'm rich. I’ve got the house, the money, the connections—and a beautiful wife.
(Bob wraps an arm around his wife. She smiles and kisses his cheek.)
Bob’s Wife: You’re too modest, Bobby. You’re brilliant.
(Your face tightens as their words sink in. Their laughter cuts deeper than you’d like to admit. The conversation shifts from mockery to pity.)
Fred’s Wife: Tony’s still single, isn’t he? No house, no savings… nothing.
Fred: Funny, isn't it? He was the most talented back in school. It’s like having a winning hand and folding.
Kenny: I heard he’s renting in a rough neighborhood. Hope it’s not too dangerous.
Bob: If something happened to him, who’d even notice? We’re probably the closest thing he has to family.
Kenny’s Wife: Poor guy. He should’ve come tonight—it’s warmer here.
Fred: Don’t pity him too much. He chose this path.
(You clench your fists, your chest tightening with each word. The Mysterious Figure watches you silently. Without a word, you leave the house, the snow crunching underfoot.)
(Outside, under a streetlamp, you stop. The snow falls softly around you as you stare up at the sky, your breath visible in the freezing air.)
You: (voice trembling) Why did you show me this?
Mysterious Figure: To remind you of the truth.
You: (bitterly) The truth? That I’m a failure? That my so-called friends think I’m a joke?
Mysterious Figure: No. The truth is you’ve spent your life chasing a dream they’ll never understand. They measure success in paychecks and property. You measure it in words, stories, and the lives you’ll touch.
You: (looking down at the bag of gifts) And what has it gotten me?
Mysterious Figure: Time will tell. But don’t let their words define you. Your story isn’t over yet.
(The Figure steps back into the shadows, vanishing. Snow continues to fall, the street quiet and still. After a moment, you straighten your shoulders, resolve hardening in your eyes, and walk toward home.)
(Posted on 9.1.2025)
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