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The Writer

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The clock chimes eight, and a man sits in a living room, his head in his hands, fingers to his sore eyes. The room is lit by a huge fireplace, the yellow and deep orange flames reaching high as if yearning to float up, up, into the cold night air. The windows have no curtains, and the wind whistles loudly in the man’s ear, distracting him from the papers about the desk that he sits over. Rubbing his eyelids with his wrinkled and callused hands, the man looks up into the glass pane in front him. He stares into the darkness, seeing nothing, yet still looking for something. His shoes lay by the fire, warming themselves for the next sunrise, the next errand. His shirt is unbuttoned on the top, the collar slightly damp from his sweat, and his knees cramped from sitting too long. As he stares, the ink on his pen drys, and so does the blot of ink on his manuscript he made when carelessly throwing his pen down in dismay. Snapping out of his faze, he stands suddenly and puts on his shoes. He walks out of the room, holding a candle that lights his way. Moving mechanically he passes the kitchen, the bathroom, until he finds his way to the bedroom where his hand reaches beneath the mattress. His heated skin prickles at meeting cool cloth and wood, and his finger find the handle that lead to a compartment in the wood frame of the bed. Opening the top, he pulls out a suitcase that was once his father’s, and his grandfather’s, and so on. The brown leather cover is worn and weathered, but sturdy. The rusted lock at the front squeaks and chips a bit as the man pulls a key from his pocket, fits it into the hole and turns the lock. Inside are checks, millions of dollars and a passport, two actually, but one is for a girl no longer of importance in this story. A spare key, also is there, and a swiss knife and a lucky penny. The man pulls out the penny and closes the suitcase, putting the bed back in place and leaving the room. With coat, hat and shoes on, the man stuffs his manuscript into the case and locks it. With no more than a nod toward the sky, the man douses the fire and steps out the door. Flipping the lucky penny in his left hand and with the wind yelling in his ear, he makes his way, purging on into the black infinity.
This man is who you make him to be. I find him to be the writer.




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This article has 5 comments. Post your own!

scootx said...
Sep. 29 at 8:50 pm:
Olivia! This is so good :') Where's part 2? Please please please! Keep writing hunny :)  -Scoot xx
 
FallenoutofgraceThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. replied...
today at 7:50 pm :
Omg olivia!!! This is great your imagery is amazing for example sore eyes :3 and stuff
 
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The-Noir-PoetThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. said...
Sep. 25 at 11:33 pm:
I have to admit, that is better than some of the stuff I have writen. Thank you so much for this story.   Where is part 2? Ever dark and yours The-Noir-Poet
 
BlottedInkThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. replied...
Sep. 26 at 9:17 am :
well i hadnt really thought about a second part.... but i apperciate the comments!!! :)))) thanks guys :P
 
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Raider said...
Sep. 25 at 4:03 pm:
Very well done. I love the imagery that you use as well as the concrete and sensory language used in this piece.
 
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