THE WRITERS' BLOCK CONTEST PROMPT
Write a 500-word story about a character whose flaws make them a less-than-ideal protagonist, yet they go on to achieve some form of greatness despite being “written off” by everyone who knows them. This is a complex theme, and word count is minimal, so this is quite a challenge. I will be looking for someone who can bring this theme across effectively and efficiently.
Special thanks to 
“Tell me about your family.” The therapist poised his pen over paper.
Allison sighed a sough, turning thick-lined eyes to the window. Outside, dried leaves fell, one by one. “Linda was the oldest.”
“Tell me about Linda.”
“She was…” Allison swallowed. “... the oldest. She... um...” Another leaf disengaged from its branch, lifted, then fell from view. “She took care of us when mom was at work.”
“And Linda was how old?”
“She turned nineteen last summer.”
He flipped a page. “And Colton is?”
“My brother. He's fourteen.”
The therapist studied his notes. “When did your father leave?”
“Two years ago.” Allison shifted hips, curving her spine in unnatural posture, a twisted tree limb up her back. She drew a preparing breath. “Linda made him leave.”
His black pen scraped the paper like a dull blade. “And Linda became a sort of parent? How was that for you?”
“She was... worse than my dad.”
“Would you say she was abusive?”
Wind slapped the pane and whined through its cracks. Allison turned from the window and shrugged.
“How do you feel, losing her?”
She said nothing.
The therapist made another scratching notation. “What made you lash out, Allison?”
She eyed the doodles on the back of his writing pad. “Linda made me angry.”
“How?”
“She told Colton,” Allison swallowed. “Told him…” She tried to see what he was writing. “I don't remember exactly.”
The therapist clicked his pen. “Everyone blames you for starting the fire.”
“I didn't mean for her to die. I just wanted... ” Her voice trailed, eventually timing out.
“You're the one they usually blame aren't you?” Click, click, click.
Allison looked up.
“Would you say that's your job?” He looked at his notes. “In the family?”
She rubbed her ear, tugging rings, and pulled her blue-streaked hair along her jawbone.
The therapist placed his pen on the desk. “Tell me about Colton.”
“He's fourteen.”
“Have a drug problem?”
“He drinks sometimes.”
“Did he ever hurt you?”
“Sure.” Allison traced her kneebone with a fingernail. “We all hurt each other.”
“Sexually?”
“Not him.”
The therapist opened another file and grabbed his pen. “Evidence shows accelerant on Colton’s clothes, but not on yours.”
“Don’t write that.”
“Colton also has burns on his hands.” His clutched pen clicked once, twice.
She leaned forward, straining to see his papers. “Where does it say that?”
“You didn’t start that fire, did you Allison?”
“Are you writing that?” His pen carved paper like a paring knife in a barbed, discursive trail of black ink. Her hand grasped across his desk, a clawing, arthritic, futile reach. “Stop writing that!”
Allison startled herself with the shrill shards of her own voice.
She sat down again, the therapist’s pen phantomed in her empty fingers. “He's only fourteen.”
