Photo © Chris Bartholomew 2006

 

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Another Writer's Tale

By P. H. Madore, © 2006

 

The brilliant writer stood from his yellow-golden wooden desk, finally, and for a moment admired the body of work which was now before him--using an ancient typewriter, he had managed to type out three complete novels, a collection of short stories, and a short book of poems about writing he had first written in long-hand on the side.

It was now time for a break, he decided somberly as he filed away the new writings with the great body of other unpublished work he had sitting in a bright blue filing cabinet next to the desk.

He turned and left the room then, marching tired down some creaky, cranky stairs to a porch he had not seen in a month--he had been in such a frenzy that he had spent all of his time in either his office, his bathroom, or his kitchen, and he had not gone out for fresh air in all that time.

But now it did not matter; now things were better, he thought, and outside on his enclosed porch he saw the season's first snow.

Sitting down, lighting a miniature cigar, he thought of book sales and promotional tours. He realized what bullshit all of that was, but he steeled himself and decided, aptly, that he would not let any of that get to him right then. He also realized how insignificant absolutely everything he did was when he considered everything--the seasons, family, the sky, mountains, the government, wind. Yet he decided that everything he had done had been worth the time it took, even if it would never matter.

Soon the sun would rise, and he decided he would greet it.

The sun came, and it brought a smile for his face as well--and suddenly he smelled coffee. He set his cigar on a rail and ran into the house. He made coffee, walked solemnly back out to his cigar and enjoyed the crisp morning air, the sight of dew on the grass.

Then, he went back to work.

Many hours later, it was done.

He wasn't sure how he'd gotten it all done so fast. But it was done as he awoke with his head on the desk--and he noticed suddenly how his mouth was tinder dry, how his hair was extremely long, and how his fingernails had grown--but everything was, indeed, done.

He walked downstairs in a gray morning haze. He opened the door to his front porch and came upon a great deal of mail which had gathered there for him--packages, checks, bills, everything. He pushed through it all and lighted a cigar, and he found it to be so dry it wasn't worth smoking.

There was no electricity, and the summer wind blew gently through the gray beard he did not recognize.

He realized he had a horrible addiction to writing.

THE END

P. H. Madore once wrote for more than eight days. This was the last thing he wrote on that spree. He edits DISPATCH Literary Journal ( http://litdispatch.net ).

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