Desks and…

Over on Facebook, The Writer’s Circle posted a writing prompt about a chosen hero and a sword. That’s quite specific, which a lot of writers don’t like, but is my favorite type of prompt because I get to try to do something that both meets the prompt and looks at it in a different way. I like how this little banger came out, so decided to drop it here. Enjoy!

———————————

Desks. So many desks. And coffee houses. And pubs, a park, the backseat of a car and front seat of van. A school boiler room, a tree stump next to a river, a glass table overlooking Manhattan. A tight closet with a flashlight, the base of a colossal pyramid, in bed next to someone. A chrome and pink kitchen table at three AM, in front of an overflowing ashtray, the zoo. No, three zoos. A cramped middle seat on a plane, a treehouse, a field of lavender. An aircraft carrier, a laundromat, a drum circle. A red barn, dozens of trains, a Kmart break room. A slaughterhouse, a vegan deli, a police station. Innumerable cubicles, a whorehouse, an emperor’s throne. One-hundred-fifty-seven libraries, a handful of opium dens, the back of a second-grade classroom.

Jack dropped the quill and staggered back, his head swimming. His father grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him.

“Take a second. Breathe, Jack.”

As the visions faded, his balance returned, and Jack cracked his eyes open.

“There you go. Good,” Jack’s father said and released him. “That’s faster than my first time. I actually passed out, and didn’t have anyone there to catch me.”

Jack turned to face his father, and leaned back against the old desk. “What… what the hell was that?”

“I call it The Voices. It’s the memories of every chosen writer who’s held the quill.”

“Chosen?” Jack said and rubbed his eyes. “What does that mean?”

Jack’s father smiled. “It means you’re going to change the world.”

———————————-

Thanks for reading,

 

{RDj}

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