Death of A Writer 4-7-23
He lay there with letters streaming from his lips.
Then they heard it, the low gurgling of a liquid flowing quietly.
Behind him lay his pen, cracked and lying on its side.
Words were slowly dribbling from the fissure, murmuring as they moved towards the disfigured hand it had known so well.
The ink pooled beneath his fingernails, trying in vain to elicit a response.
That energetic jump to paper and expression of a new idea, whether sad or joyful, but alas, neither the hand nor its master responded.
This was the death of a writer and though the instruments of his craft were eager to give the world another taste of his beloved quips.
His words died in him that day and with them went him.
A writer without his words is much like a bird without wings; try as they might, there is no glory if there is no way to fly or express through the pen.
He rose from the floor and knew he must seek a new task. He was, for the moment, a writer no more.
There was no one to blame, no one to hold accountable. It was time to seek other outlets and be more than his writing had led him to be.
He looked in the mirror and tried to speak, only to find it had rendered him mute.
He slowly gazed about the room and assessed the tools of his craft, walked to the door, and wondered if the last words he wrote, were his last.
Wiping the ink from his now foreign hand, he used the kerchief to dab his eye.
He dropped it on the floor and nodded his head in a silent goodbye.
There was sadness in the air and they all agreed, there was no joy in watching the death of a writer.