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7 mai The WriterHe was just another one of them, a small-time writer, those that thrive in "intellectual" areas, sitting at every other corner. He was yet another one of those lofty dreamers who just knew that he was going to make it big. He could feel it in his blood, his bones, he was just waiting for his moment to come. So what if his past 6 attempts to get his work published had resulted in everything from "You show great promise" to being very nearly booted out by security. So what if he just wrote some absurd columns for miniscule local dailies just to eke out a living, to have food on his plate, a leaky roof on his head. He knew that he was just biding his time here, his moment of glory was yet to come...
The Dawn. This particular day was something different, the sun seemed brighter, the air invigorating, his mood surprisingly ebullient. He hadn't felt this good in years! Without further ado, he pulled his creaky chair and like a forbidding monarch, positioned himself in front of his well worn typewriter, it already had paper in it, it was just waiting for his bidding. So eager was he, that he did not even pause for his cigarette lighting ritual. As he started, his fingers seemed to have gained a life of their own, as they flew across the keys, word after word. Each word seemed to be poetry, each sentence artistry, each paragraph sheer magic. Time seemed to have come to a standstill as his hands continued their relentless pursuit, seemingly guided by the master puppeteer himself. And then he hit the fullstop, riveted to his spot, not fully aware of what had just happened.
The realisation. His trembling fingers rolled out the paper, his eyes barely able to focus on that sheet. As his mind absorbed each character, his pulse quickened, this was a work of a lifetime, a masterpiece, it was his dream, the wait that had made his life worth living. A tale so poignant, so surreal, that it would bring tears to the eyes of the most dispassionate individual. A tale that transcended the barriers of age, race and strata. His pulse, even quicker. His heart weak from repeated rejections, from the alcohol and cigarettes that vindicated his existence - was in no shape to take the sudden rush of blood, it buckled.
The Light. It was far in the distance, but it was approaching, getting brighter with every passing instant. His mind foggy, racing, memories of having told countless people that he would be willing to die for that one masterpiece...and ironically of the last publisher having told him, be careful of what you ask of God, for it just might come true. The Light ever closer, now blinding, it's here; enveloping him in its warm embrace. He never even felt the hard keys strike his cheek.
Even The Master Puppeteer is yet undecided which of the two stories is more poignant – the story the writer wrote or the writer's story.
Can be thought of as a sort of follow up to The Visitor. It is a fair bit longer than originally intended but I am plain no good at keeping it concise, so this is how it has turned out! Commentaires (13)Pour ajouter un commentaire, connectez-vous avec votre identifiant Windows Live ID (si vous utilisez Messenger ou Xbox LIVE, vous avez un identifiant Windows Live ID). Connectez-vous Vous n'avez pas d'identifiant Windows Live ID ? Inscrivez-vous
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