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A Writer's Demise

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She’s hovering over her desk again. She’s always hovering over that damned desk, writing.




You want to know, actually need to know, what she is working on, but if you even get close to that desk, she snaps and tells you to get away.




The need comes from the simple fact she is dying. She won’t talk about it, refuses to acknowledge she is dying, and refuse to give in. All you want is to spend the last days with your wife of thirty some years by your side. You just want to sit on the porch in the quiet falling light of the sun and just know she is by your side to the end.




But there she is, scribing mercilessly on papers, her idea of spending those last days.

She’s always been a writer; that is why you fell in love with her when you met her in college. The way she could form words in a romantic pattern, capture you in a spell of letters and endless poetic rhymes. Now you find yourself hating the writer in her.

You leave her hovering over the desk after pleading with her to come to bed. Leaving her to whatever she is scribing down.

In the morning you find her no longer hovering over the desk, but stoop on it, her head resting on the papers. You put a hand on her shoulder to shake her from her sleep, but find the shoulder cold and stiff...

A couple weeks later, you find curiosity getting the better of you. You finally let yourself read what she was working endlessly on. You hadn’t touched the desk since her passing and find the last words on the top paper is ‘The End’. She had died at the closure of the story, what perfect timing.

So you read the whole text. The story is about a husband who had been a writer all his life and is dying with ever letter he writes. As every letter he writes brings him closure to death, his wife tries to get him to stop. Of course no one can ever stop a writer from writing so the husband ends up killing himself.

You can’t help but think this is how your wife pictures her death: the formation of letters out of ink that killed her.

For some mysterious reason you find yourself picking up her pen and writing.

In some other reality, you find yourself staring into a window looking in on yourself as you scribble mercilessly. Suddenly you watch yourself stop and fall, head on the desk. You turn away from the window, away from your own bent figure, to find a bright light washing over you. You walk towards it and vanish from this reality, just like she could into her own stories.




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kyramcnThis 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...
Jan. 4 at 3:52 pm:
Oh my god this is awesome I felt so pulled into this story and what a creative idea... so so so good. :)  Would you mind checking out my fiction article?:)
 
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