The City used to be a bohemian place, where servants of literature used to live and hone their craft. Writers flocked and lived their artistic dreams and failures. It was a city of hope, of dead ambitions, of people succeeding and people going home and resign their lives as generic office workers.
Years later and the City became more than a haven for artists; the modern age paved the way for a more diverse community, and the industrial giants took over. In this dark times, the servants of arts were seemingly erased from the city, but what people don't know is that they were cornered in the last bastion of Literature.
Here the old souls have a seat and take a drink, savoring the epicurean liquid as they dream to be the next O. Henry, Shakespeare, among other literary titans. This place became the Bataan and Corregidor of the besieged scribes, hoping that one day the General MacArthur of Literatus will arrive and save them all. That time is yet to come.
Welcome to the Writers' Club.
YOU ARE READING
The Writers' Club
General FictionHere writers of different kind go to drink; the ink and the liquor just flow all the same. A place where the intellectuals meet, where hope mingles with despair; optimism with disillusionment; ambition meets creative drain. A washed-up writer. A cyn...
