The Book That Never Was

The writer stared at his creation lying on the desk

The desk that had given him years of joy with its handcrafted beauty

A story almost completed, but held back by a loss for words

The missing pages eluding his mind for too long now

The anguish of not being able to perform his trade

Had brought him to this moment on this day.

Slowly, the center drawer of this desk slid open with ease

Without looking down, his hand explored the contents to find his prey

A .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol meant to protect

Was now destined to destroy

He chambered a copper jacketed shell

His eyes closed and guided the pistol into place

The index finger started to squeeze the trigger

A lone tear emerged from his now tightly clenched eyes

Seeking relief from this paper beast

The deafening report of the projectile exiting the gun

Startled neighbors all around

And the pistol silently slipped from his grip

Resting now on the desktop

As the pages of the story fell to the floor

It was done; he had found peace.

Eventually he arose

Picking up the pages and admiring the hole

That perfect hole left in each page by the bullet

That had silenced his writer’s block

He had killed his tormenter

And he thought to himself

“Maybe I’ll be a carpenter.”


About The Rural Iowegian

I am the Rural Iowegian of a published author and an award winning photographer. I use this space to speak my mind. God Bless.
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