Pauline walked over to his desk pulling the paper out of his typewriter, holding it close smelling his Sandalwood cologne and vanilla flavored pipe tobacco. She held the paper out in front of her for all to see then handed it to Ricky.
If you closed your eyes you could hear his old Royal typewriter clicking out the words that flowed through his fingers and the cracking of ice cubes as he poured warm Bourbon into his glass. A glass that still rested on his writing desk. You could hear the old wooden building creaking as we walked up the stairs of the Writers’ Café and entered his inner sanctum, a place where few people were ever admitted. It mocked us daring us to find the right words to fit this sacred moment. The air was heavy with the smell of old coffee and books. The room echoed from its emptiness as we walked across the room to pull out the dust-covered chairs and sit down at his table leaving one chair empty where he would be sitting. The silence was so strong as to suck the air from the room. It was the fact that he was gone and the table where he held court barren of his coffee cup and moleskin journal.
#KBOARDS WRITERS CAFE FREEPLANE FREEMIND WINDOWS#
The Writers’ Café was empty now with the windows boarded up. It wasn’t the boarded windows or the café chairs stacked in the corner that made the café feel empty as we stood there.
The winter wind blew snow flurries down the deserted street. The sound of the wind was like hellhounds on the marshes howling at the sky. The moonless night was dark and angry but seemed like a storm passing. By Larry Tyler - CHAPTER ONE – THE LOST MANUSCRIPT WITH RAISSA URDIALESĬolumnist & Featured Contributor,
0 kommentar(er)
