The End.
When he wrote those two words, it was over. The adventure. The love. The laughs. The life. The journey. It was all over.
The Writer sighed as he write those dreaded words...the words that ended a work of art...a work of life.
The Writer, as all writers knew, that sometimes more would ruin the art. Why add more paint when the canvas is covered in art. Sometimes more is needed to keep it alive. Sometimes it ruins the masterpiece already made.
The Writer bound the pages together, and put it on top of his desk. Another finished work. Another life they had run it's course. His works would never see light.
The Writer did all of his writing in his dark basement without windows or daylight. There was light, but only from the glow of his two candles. Once the flames died down, and the wax was melted, he stopped, and went upstairs to plan out his ideas.
The Writer didn't believe in sharing his art. He dishy want other people to think of alternate endings...he didn't want other people to judge. It was art, and if you judge the art, and think it through so that it is understood, the art loses it's intrinsic value and mystery.
He was a fabulous writer though. The best. But no one would ever know that but him.
And he preferred it that way.
And that way, it would forever stay.
YOU ARE READING
The Writer
RandomA man sits in his dark basement alone writing tales of magnificent lands and creatures…lives never explored. He doesn't go by a name. He goes by The Writer.
