Freedom



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The house on the hill told more stories than Linden knew he ever would.  His editor had recommended that he go away for awhile, get away from the buzz of traffic around his office window and try writing somewhere fresh.  Irritated by the implication that he wasn’t producing well, Linden had snapped.  But after reading through the beginning of his latest manuscript, he realized Shelly was right.  He needed something fresh. 

He had closed his eyes and picked a pamphlet from the stack she gave him, he didn’t even look at it.  She booked the flight, and practically packed his suitcase for him.  It was one of the many benefits of sleeping with her, she went above and beyond. 

The stone steps were slick with moss and moisture, the brass handle to the door long since greened.  He had the house to himself, save for Mrs. Havisham who would bring him his meals, and perhaps a cup of tea, if he needed it.  He would finish his novel, and he would finish it well.

It took him a few hours to get settled into his room.  It was almost as big as his apartment, an archway leading from the spacious bedroom to the study, lined with leather books and perfumed with dust and yesterdays.  He had moved the overstuffed chair from the window in the corner to the mahogany desk where his typewriter sat, stacks of paper beside it.  He put in the first one, and started to write. 

He felt as if his mind were filling with sand.  The words he wrote were heavy, uninspired.  If lightning was striking it was hitting no where important, no where good.  He forced out a few more pages, before he leaned back in his chair.

Linden ran his fingers through his hair.  He remembered when he was young and full of words, desperate to transition from his office job to his desk at home, where he would type the hours away.  It was a laptop then, he had picked up the antique typewriter after his second book deal.  It was a statement, it was his way of claiming himself as the genuine article, so good he didn’t need spell check or backspace.  He stared at it, the smooth metal keys like an array of stop signs.  He just couldn’t anymore.

Taking it in his hands, he assailed it out the window.  He pulled forward to watch it careen down the side of the manor, and into the green abyss.  Free, he thought.  At last.




9 comments:

  1. Gosh that's painfully real! Wonderful work.

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    1. Thank you! It's how I've been feeling lately.. :P

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  2. "...lined with leather books and perfumed with dust and yesterdays." I love that line! I'm torn about his freedom. Does he return to the laptop? Or give up the writing.
    Either way, nicely written, the imagery was great!

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    1. I'm not sure. I think as a writer, he can't even give up on writing. But I think he gives up on pretense, and trying to be somebody.

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  3. I knew from the first sentence that this was going to be amazing! And I loved this phrase:

    "...lined with leather books and perfumed with dust and yesterdays."

    That's just downright gorgeous!!

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  4. Beautifully written! though my eternal optimism hopes as he sheds the idea of being "real", he can find a way back to the passion he used to feel for words.

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  5. Typewriters are overrated ;) Hope he goes back to his laptop. And maybe stops sleeping with his assistant. ;) He needs to clear the cobwebs. And I know the feeling.

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