Wednesday, 10 April 2013

The Death of a Writer

The sunlight shadowed her as she sat quietly at the desk of her tiny office. One door. One window. One chair. One desk. Hundreds of document files, papers, notebooks: crammed into that box that she called an office.

Hand on her head, and the other grasping the black-ink roller ball: she waited. 

The words would come, they always did. Sometimes it took seconds, sometimes it took days, but they always came to her rescue in the end.

But today, the words hid from her. Nib never touching Page. The ink not soaking itself into the blankness of the page, nor glorying itself into the strength of the written word. 

The writer breathed in and out, in and out, in and out. and sighed. She needed the words today - of all days. The day she met him, she thought nothing of it - the man with a spare room and an office for her. A man with eyes so dark she lost her mind every time she looked at him. A man standing in the doorway, watching her every move. 

Today, her life depended on the one thing she thought she would never lose: her words. And today, she was going to die.  

No comments:

Post a Comment