The Dream

B eing a writer is a job for the certifiably

insane. I have no doubt that if society

knew the half of what it takes for us to formulate

random words into book format they would not

hesitate to shove a needle the length of a twelve

inch ruler into our arm and pump our veins with

the harshest sedative possible. Countless hours,

days, weeks, and months spent pounding the

anatomy of the keyboard driven by a force much

bigger than us. Crying in agony as our bodies are

depleted of the sleep and nutrients necessary to

function as a “normal” human being. “I need rest”,

we whimper to the characters that occupy the

space in our minds begging us to turn them into

plots, twists, climaxes and happy endings; to the

figure that occupies the corner in our room

feeding us revelations that are far above our

mortal insight. And then at times when it becomes

too quiet for us to bear we waddle in the spirit of

our own hopelessness as we whisper to the entities

that afflict us, “Come back. I need inspiration.” All

of this, sacrificing time, tears, and downright

sanity, just to see the thoughts in our heads

bounded and printed. Standing there like helpless

fools grinning, showing off every single tooth and

every inch of gum, as we witness possibly fifteen

people purchase a year worth of work; a year

worth of painful, sacrificing, sleep deprived work.

Yet in spite of the lack of appreciation and

honor that is bestowed upon us we write on!

Hopeful that one day this technology crazed world

will arise from its zombie state and begin to once

again appreciate the oldest art form known to

man: the written word. Wishful thinking? Eh,

maybe. But the idea of placing a man on the moon

was once only wishful thinking to someone.

It was in this particular moment, the space in

between utter despair and complete ecstasy that I

found myself one cold and late December night.

From the bay window in my home office I could

see tiny snowflakes drizzling from the sky and

landing softly, perfectly onto the rooftops, car

tops, treetops and even further to the earth below.

The night was cloudy, the moon barely visible

between the thicknesses that covered it. The still‐

ness of the night with its hanging clouds and

absence of wind almost seemed inviting. But one

step over the threshold and into the outside

would prove that this night was anything but

inviting –it was bitterly cold. Like a million tiny

needles it pierced the skin of anyone willing

enough to brave it. The thought of the iciness

caused me to sink deeper into the plushness of

my desk chair – happy now for the warmth of the

fire that filled the belly of the fireplace to my

far right.

The fireplace. It and the bay window were the

two reasons why I adored the office space the

home offered. At first glance it drew you in. The

built in bookshelves were filled with the stories

and legacies of both past and present writers, those

who had chosen to take the journey of the pen and

paper before or at the same time as me. My office.

My sanctuary. Once a place of retreat for me had

now become, for the better part of the last five

days, my personal prison. I had been stuck here,

unable to neither eat, shower, nor engage with the

outside world until the monstrosity that I called a

novel was free from my ailing mind.

I slunk back into my chair, relieving my body

of the erect position in which it had been forced

into, while in the same motion I reached for the

coffee cup that sat next to the lamp perched upon

the desk. The mug was an off white color, painted

black on the inside. Engraved in black paint

around its entire perimeter was my pen name: J.R.

Smith – short for Jacqueline Rena’ Smith. The mug

was a gift, given to me three years ago by my

publisher pending the release of my very first

novel.

“Every writer needs a good coffee cup”, Janice

quipped as she handed the mug to me during one

of our then weekly lunch meetings.

I always admired that about her, her desire to

fill a need in people. She did not always offer what

you wanted, whether in her personal or business

life, but she always seemed to provide those

surrounding her with what they may need. I

beamed greatly as I freed the coffee mug from its

entrapment of decorative gift paper. My heart

skipped a beat as I read my pen name carved into

the body of the mug. I thought I was quite clever

back then choosing my initials and last name as

the title by which I thought the world would know

me. I thought it made me sound distinguished and

somehow worthy of a spot in the archives of

literary geniuses.

Three weeks after this meeting, Amongst Wolves,

a psychological thriller that I had sacrificed any

semblance of a normal life for, was released. It was

sure to be a hit –- at least that is what everyone

close to me kept saying. It flopped. It gained hardly

any sells and not a single raving review, except for

some small town editor hell bent on making a

name for himself who wrote in a lengthy news‐

paper review that it was “painfully mediocre”. All

of that work, all of that gut wrenching work down

the drain.

Nevertheless, a year after that devastating

blow I managed to produce yet another novel,

convincing myself that the failure of the first was

simply “beginner’s un-luck”. This time I would

aim for a more sentimental target: a romance

story. Beating Hearts was released and with it

every ounce of hope that I could muster.

However, I am sad to say that it did worse than

the first novel.

Months later I sat in Janice’s office, utterly

numb, as she discussed what could have possibly

went wrong and what could be done different the

next time ---- if there was a next time.

“You just have to find your niche J.R.”, Janice

had said.

“Niche?” I had repeated as if the trauma of

failing as a writer had somehow robbed me of my

ability to define and understand the most common

of words.

“Yea. Niche.” “You know? Like, position, role,

place”, Janice rambled on hardly aware that my

focus was not on her. As a matter of fact all I could

do was stare at the bottom button on my cotton

shirt as if it was somehow the most interesting

thing I had ever seen.

“You just have to find what defines you as a

writer and stick with that.” Janice’s voice snapped

me back to reality, making me realize that I had

missed a great deal of the conversation.

“Maybe psychological thrillers and romance

novels aren’t the best genre for you. We simply

have to figure out what category fits your style and

you will take off. Just wait. You’ll see”, Janice stated

with false enthusiasm. A pregnant silence suddenly

filled the office. I knew that one of us had to say

something to ease the tension. Yet, judging by the

artificial smile that lay plastered on Janice’s face I

seriously doubted that she would be the one to

clear the air. This encounter had come to an

awkward end.

I gathered my handbag from the floor and

placed it on my shoulders by the straps. At the

same time I began to stand.

“Yeah. You’re probably right”, I said to Janice as

I turned to head towards the office door.

Janice was standing by the chair behind her

desk as if sitting down in this moment was not

appropriate. Having made my way across the

room, half of my body in Janice’s office, half

outside the door, I recognized the space that was

now in between us. And somehow seeing that

distance brought me to the realization that these

past two years had created a sort of emotional

wedge between Janice and I. Two strangers who

were once friends were now simply friendly for

the sake of business, incapable of even ending a

conversation without social discomfort.

She was no longer, towards me, the same energetic,

need-filling person I had once knew. Now

our meetings were abrupt and filled with unau thentic conversation.

What had changed? It seems

that as my dream of becoming a renown writer

had begun to whither so did our friendship, and

also her ability to believe in me earnestly. I tugged

at the strap of the handbag that was now digging

into the flesh of my shoulders.

“Well,” I uttered. “I think I will go home and

consider everything that you have said.” “Trying a

new genre can’t hurt.”

“I’m sure that you will see that it will all work

out fine J.R.”, Janice stated with a smile across her

thin lips.

I smiled back. Then I walked out the door. Just

like that. No good bye. No friendly I’ll see you later.

As I left Janice’s office that day the emotion on

her face lay etched in my mind. Yes she had smiled.

And no there was nothing odd about that. It was

just that the smile had not reached her eyes. She

smiled with her lips but her eyes expressed

another emotion. What was it? It was a look--- the

look you give a fish that has jumped too high out

of the water and landed on the embankment. It

was the look that you gave an earthworm that had

somehow crawled away from the coolness of the

rich soil onto the pavement on a hot summer day.

It was the look that you gave people who stood

wearily at the traffic light with a sign that read,

“Will work for food”. I knew that look. Yeah, I

knew what it was called. Pity.

Is this what my failure had led me to ---

sympathy at the hands of those who should be at

awe of my gift, my talent? “I just want to be one of

The Greats”, I whispered to no one in particular.

Shakespeare. Poe. C.S. Lewis. Robert Frost.

Langston Hughes. Maya Angelou. All of those who

left large footprints upon the hearts and minds of

countless souls, whose words lie etched in both

books and minds, forever to be remembered. How

did they do it? How did they conquer the giant of

obscurity? How did they manage to remain

famous, relevant, and still true?

Reeling my thoughts back into the present I

lifted the mug to my lips. The bitter taste of stale,

cold coffee bit my tongue and insulted my taste

buds. It seemed like only a moment ago that I had

exited to the kitchen that was right past my office

door and brewed a fresh batch of coffee. How long

had I been sitting here? I contemplated refilling my

cup but at the same time I caught a glimpse of the

clock on the computer screen. 1:30 a.m. I did not

need coffee. I needed rest.

Driven mad for lack of sleep but coerced by

some otherworldly influence, I sat in front of my

office desk; fixated on the computer that occupied

its smooth top. Eyes wide, breathing slow, steady

breaths I stared trance like at the blank Word

document. In the open field of my brain, characters and

story lines were at war, fighting to escape.

Yet, I could not find the words to bring them to

fruition. This had been an ongoing cycle for the

past two hours. One moment I was typing frantically as

random words spewed onto the empty

page. The next moment, having all my energy

spent, I stared aimlessly at the screen. Then there

was the final phase of my hysteria, the phase of

despair in which I would backspace every word

that I had just written within the last twenty

minutes.

I WAS BACK AT PHASE TWO, GAZING AT THE BLANK

page as if half expecting the words to write them‐

selves. The harder I concentrated the more rapidly

my breaths seem to come, abandoning its once

steady, slow rhythm. Short and quick, I sucked in

bits of air as my brain sent signals to the other

parts of my body that I was not getting enough

oxygen. My chest tightened, droplets of sweat

began to form on my brow. My hands became

slick and clammy -- eyes bulged in horror as I

stared fixated at the cursor on the computer

screen. Blinking rapidly as I struggled to breathe.

Blink. Blink. It almost seemed as if it was taunting

me; as if the rapid blinking of the cursor was the

computer sticking its tongue out. Somehow it

must have known that I was a failure, that I was

incapable of piecing together a simple story. Don’t

focus on the screen. Focus on what is around you.

Feeling paranoia grip me I squeezed my eyes shut,

sucking in air through partially clenched teeth. But

even behind tightly closed eyes the image of the

blinking cursor still projected itself into my brain.

The wave of anxiety began to grow with no

promise of a relief. My heart beat like a caged

animal attempting to force its way from imprison‐

ment. At any moment it would succeed and rip

itself through my chest or it would fail and drop

instantly to a dramatic death. Focus on what is

around you. I pried my eyes open as beads of sweat

dripped from my eyelashes into my eye socket. I

searched for an inanimate object of any sorts to

focus my mind upon, something that would deter

me from the terror of the panic attack that I now

found myself in.

My eyes locked onto the desk that I had been

perched in front of for hours. I took my hands and

gripped the sides of it as if I was holding on for

dear life. The beautiful mahogany wood felt warm

and hard to the touch. I scanned my eyes across its

smooth dark surface; it gleamed elegantly in the

artificial light cast by the lamp. It reminded me of

home, of backwoods and dirt roads, long summers

and teenage romances. I fell in love with it the

moment I saw it. One Saturday I had purchased it

from some young hot shot having a garage sale to

get rid of his late aunt’s belongings. Having inherrited her

entire estate, he seemed all to eager to rid

himself of her things. He sold the antique desk to

me for twenty bucks. I gained a gem and he was

one more step closer to freedom. That was life I

suppose. You live. You die. And then someone sells

all your possessions as junk at a neighborhood

yard sale.

I was jolted back to the present by the suffocating warmth

of my rising body temperature.

Sweat now rained from various places on my body.

My heartbeat had not abandoned its rapid rhythm.

Focusing on my surroundings was not enough to

subdue the panic that had now taken over. All of

this, fear, panic, anxiety, because I failed to be what

I have always desired to be: a writer. Because I was

incapable of succeeding at the thing I loved the

most. Incompetent. Failure. Joke. The words

screamed in my head. In the background the

crackling of the fireplace grew louder, almost as if

the flames were laughing at me –-- as if they were

aware of how much of a failure I was. Shadows

danced across the wall --- fingers pointing, people

laughing, voices chanting insulting, horrible

names!

***********************************************

I SNATCHED MY HEAD UP FROM WHERE IT LAY

resting upon my forearm on the desk. Disoriented,

I squinted my eyes so that I could bring my view

into focus. I was still in my home office but the

atmosphere was different. Where were the voices?

I could no longer hear them. I held both of my

hands in front of me, palms up. They were not

sweaty and clammy. My body no longer felt heated

and oxygen deprived. As a matter of fact the

temperature in the room seemed to have dropped

tremendously, I noticed as small puffs of clouds

escaped my mouth and my nostrils. It was

freezing!

I swiveled in my desk chair so that I could get a

better look at the fireplace, which now stood

absent of fire. The only thing visible in it’s stony

belly was the darkening of ash and soot. But had

not only a moment ago the fire crackled and

blazed? Had not I heard the voices of people

shouting, seen the shadows dancing and pointing?

Or had I been asleep?

I chuckled, softly at first, then more loudly. I

was losing my mind. That had to be the only explanation.

I turned in my desk chair to now face the

computer. The screen had blackened from lack of

activity. I used my right hand to shake the mouse,

hoping to get a glimpse of the time. As the

computer screen illuminated I turned my gaze to

the digital time in the top right corner: 1:30 a.m.

Whatever creative concept my mind was to

bring forth, would have to be written once the sun

had come up, I determined. I began to stand and

gather my bearings so that I may proceed to bed

when I was stopped dead in my tracks by an unexpected

sound: muffled voices. I lived alone and on

a night like to night I expected no visitors. Yet

seeping underneath my office door came the

sound of strange voices engaged in conversation.

You have really gone and done it this time J.R., I

thought to myself. They are going to lock you in the

loony bin for sure! However, somehow in my gut, I

knew that the voices I heard were not the ones that

dwelled in my head. No, these were real voices that

echoed from my kitchen.

I know I should have been afraid. I should have

hid, should have knocked the glass out of the bay

window and executed an escape. But I felt none of

those natural instincts, no fear for the supposed

intruders in my home. They could be thieves! They

could be serial killers! My mind screamed these

things but my body refused to react to the panic

that my brain tried so desperately to send out.

Driven by curiosity, I slowly begin to inch

forward step by step. My teeth begin to chatter, my

legs became wobbly, and I felt a sickness in the pit

of my stomach. My symptoms were not a result of

rational fear, the fear that my life was in danger.

But it was another form of fear, the type, that in

this moment would solidify a lingering, assumed

truth. I feared that if I opened that door to find

that no persons were actually on the other side of

it that that would confirm that I have officially

reached the destination of insanity --- no longer

teeter tottering on the line, but full fledge toppled

over into the dimension of crazy. And there was

no coming back from that. No, I MUST go

through that door and face whoever, whether real

or imagined, stood on the other side.

I count it as a sheer miracle that my legs, as

wobbly as they were, were able to carry me the

short distance to the office door. I stood with my

arm outstretched, fingers wrapped around the

doorknob. Through the cracks of the door fluorescent

light from the kitchen seeped through. The

muffled voices were more distinct now. I could

make out their differences; I counted two, maybe

three persons on the other side. The conversation

was light. I even heard laughter. Who breaks into a

home and jovially converse as if it was a simple lunch

date? More tired of the suspense than I was afraid

of the answer I decided to face my fate. And with

one swift motion I turned the knob and thrust

myself into the adjacent kitchen.

What I am about to say next will not only put

me in a very questionable light but it may very well

ruin any future chances of my ever being considered a

credible and sane writer. Still, I must tell the

truth as I saw it. Bursting into the kitchen of my

home I saw a sight that I cannot un-see and an

experience that I wish I could relive. As I stood

before the four place, wooden table that occupied

the open space in my dinette, I was greeted with a

peculiar image. Three men of a seemingly

Caucasian influence were seated at three of the

four chairs. I expected, upon entering my kitchen,

to catch a band of robbers, complete with black

attire and ski masks, in the action of stealing my

most prized possessions. But the image that I saw

now was the complete opposite. These three men

were seated in the most dignified of manners;

dressed in distinguished clothing. It was as if I had

interrupted a private meeting.

The second thing that I found a bit peculiar is

the clothing that each gentleman wore. It seemed,

for the lack of a better word, old. Very vintage. I’m

no historian but judging by the style and texture of

the clothing I would say it was more of a late

1800s early 1900s look. But why dress into costumes

and break into someone’s house? I would not have

long to come to an answer as the gentlemen who

sat at the far head of the table began to speak.

“Hello J.R. We have been awaiting your arrival.”

He spoke with a smile.

I could not explain it, but somehow I did not

feel alarmed, or frightened. I felt relaxed, as if I was

amongst friends. I felt a strange since of familiarity, like

I had known these gentlemen for years. I

did not panic. I was not on the defense. I just stood

there, speechless and unable to move.

Finally, after what felt like an hour, I opened

my mouth to speak. “Who are you and why are you

in my home?”

“My apologies”, the head gentleman began.

“I know this must be a tad bit confusing. Why

don’t we all start with some introductions? It

is quite rude that we all know you, yet you do

not have the slightest idea who we are. Well, at

least that is what you believe.” He smiled

again.

“My name is C.S. Lewis. The two gentlemen

who are accompanying me tonight is Edgar Allen

Poe,” he stated as he pointed to the man on

his right.

“How do you do?” said Poe as he nodded his

head towards me with a smile.

“… And Robert Frost.” Stated Lewis as he

motioned towards the man on his left.

“Nice to meet your acquaintance J.R.” stated a

smiling Frost.

“Wait, wait, wait. What do you mean you are

C.S. Lewis, Robert Frost, and Edgar Allen Poe?

They’re dead!” I exclaimed.

“Oh heavens”, stated Lewis. “I think death is a

bit too heavy for such a light and friendly

encounter. It most definitely is not on our list of

things to discuss tonight.”

“B-b-but this cannot be real.” I stammered.

“This has to be a dream!”

“All that we see or seem is but a dream within

a dream.” Said Poe in a singsong voice.

“That’s what Poe would say,” I muttered.

“I am Poe.” He replied.

I released an exasperated breath.

“It would seem,” started Lewis, “that you have a

huge choice to make. Either sit at the table and

find out what this could be. Or walk away out of

fear and spend the remainder of your life wondering. The

choice is yours.”

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;” Frost

recited with a smile.

I smiled too, partially because the sound of

Robert Frost reciting his own poetry warmed my

heart, partially because I knew for sure that I had

utterly lost my mind. I approached the empty,

remaining chair and slowly pulled it from its place

against the table. Even slower did I ease into the

seat, never taking my eyes off the three and the

three never taking their eyes off of me. It would

seem that by sitting I had chosen the road less

traveled by. For anyone else, of a sane mindset,

would have un-doubtfully walked away.

“Well now, it seems as if we can finally begin,” a

jolly Poe remarked as he took a swig of the brown

substance that filled the short glass he held in his

hand. As he was removing the glass from his lips

his eyes caught my look of disdain.

“Care for a drink?” he offered.

“I don’t drink.” I replied.

“And neither should you Edgar,” Frost

remarked.

“Oh lighten up Frost! Nothing like a little wine

and spirits to liven the party.” Replied Poe.

“You do know that alcohol is what was

rumored to have caused your untimely death?” I

chimed in.

“The boundaries which divide Life from

Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall

say where the one ends and where the other

begins? In other words: who cares what people

have rumored?” Poe sarcastically stated as he

waved his glass in the air.

Frost rolled his eyes.

Lewis sighed.

I snickered.

“How about we get on with the matter at hand.

We have already wasted much of the hours on

doubting minds and foolish souls.’” Lewis stated,

looking directly at Poe towards the end of the

statement.

Poe loudly smacked his lips.

“We came to you dear child because we under‐

stand that you have been having some problems,”

stated Lewis.

“What sort of problems?” I asked, suddenly

feeling uncomfortable.

“The sort of problems that would cause you to

be unable to manifest beautiful worlds through

beautiful words. The type of problems that can

only be caused by doubt and discouragement,”

added Frost with an earnest look.

“So you know my shame?” I asked. “You know

that I am incapable of doing the things that you all

have done, unworthy of the title that you have

carried; the title of writer.” I finished just as my

voice began to quiver. I could feel fresh tears

threatening to escape the corners of my eyes.

“You believe that we are giants?’ stated Lewis.

“You believe that we are greater than you?”

‘You are!” I exclaimed.

“We are not!” Lewis rebutted. “We are more like

you than you believe. What causes you to think

that you are not a writer? Have you not written

two books and are now working on a third?”

“Yes.”

“Well why do you not think of yourself as a

writer?’

“Because neither of my novels was successful”

“And how do you measure success?” replied

Lewis.

“I don’t know! I suppose success is raving

reviews, good sells, and having people actually

know who you are.” I rambled.

“Is that it? Is that what you believe?” Lewis

stated in disbelief. “Oh darling, sweet, naïve

darling. You are a writer, whether or not anyone

ever knows your name; whether or not you ever

get one raving review; whether or not you ever sell

one single copy. The success of a writer is not

measured by how well anyone knows him, but

merely by the fact that he completed the written

work.”

“Look at me.” Stated Poe. “I wrote beautiful

things but found that my greatest praise came only

after my death.”

“And I, dear child, suffered many disappointments in my

early years as a writer,” began Frost.

“No one would publish my work. Then, in a

grand attempt, I uprooted my entire family to

move from New Hampshire to England just so I

could see my words published. You have to

sacrifice.”

“And I was well-known in my lifetime,” stated

Lewis. “Yet, that does not make me any more of a

writer than my fellow comrades.” He gestured

towards Poe and Frost. “You have what it takes J.R.

You have the same burning passion that all writers

have; to tell the untold story; to preach the

unreachable truth.”

“I-I just always thought it meant something to

be known,” I stated quietly.

“Either you want to be famous or you want to

be a writer. But it is very seldom that you are

both,” said Lewis.

I looked around at the faces of the three who

had become suddenly quiet. Each of them wore an

expression of empathy and compassion upon their

face as they stared back at me. Even Poe had abandoned

his alcoholic beverage to share in this

special moment. I felt so many emotions, part

humility at the fact that someone would go to such

great lengths to allow me to believe in myself

again. Whether this proved to be either real or a

dream I knew that I would never forget this

experience.

“I have one final question,” I said as I cleared

my throat. “What should I write? What genre is

my niche?”

Lewis began to smile as he said, “You are a

writer J.R. Write everything.”

“Just make sure you write about love,” started

Frost. “Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.”

“And make sure you write about terror,” Poe

stated with wide-eyed glee. “Words have no

power to impress the mind without the

exquisite horror of their reality.”

“But most importantly make sure you write of

truth,” said Lewis. “Literature adds to reality, it

does not simply describe it. It enriches the

necessary competencies that daily life requires

and provides; and in this respect, it irrigates the

deserts that our lives have already become.”

“And be sure to do us just one favor,” said Poe

as he reached his hand inside his jacket.

“Yes. Anything,” I replied.

Poe extended his hand across the table. “Make

sure to write on; never ceasing.”

“Write on.” Stated Frost.

“Write on.” Repeated Lewis.

I looked down at Poe’s extended hand and saw

that he held a beautiful feathered quill pen. The

feather was a magnificent black, raven color. The

body and tip of the pen was golden and glimmered

in the brightness of the light. And engraved in

small letters, just before the tip, were the initials:

E.A.P.

“For you,” stated Poe.

I delicately grasped the pen from his hands and

stared, awe struck, at its beauty and authenticity.

My eyes began to swell with tears.

“Thank y---,” I began. But they had gone. The

three chairs that were, only a moment ago, occupied by

the greatest literary geniuses of all times

were now completely empty. As if no one had even

been there.

*************************************************

I SNATCHED MY HEAD UP FROM WHERE IT LAY

propped on the back of my office chair. Disoriented I

attempted to focus in on my environment.

“Poe? Lewis? Frost?” I called out. I rubbed the side

of my neck where it felt I had gotten a horrible

cramp.

“I have got to be losing my grip on reality,” I

said as I squeezed my eyes tightly together.

“Did I actually dream that I had a meeting with

Poe, Lewis, and Frost?” I chuckled. I attempted to

rise from the chair all the while promising myself

that tomorrow I was going to schedule an appointment

with a local psychologist. I really needed to

talk to a professional, someone other than myself

who could help sort through the complexity of my

brain. I stood and yawned as I shook the computer

mouse with my right hand. The time at the top of

the desktop’s screen read 1:30 a.m.

No longer in any condition to analyze or either

think too hard about another thing I wearily

carried myself to the office door. As I walked into

the kitchen I laughed again at the thought of

having met my literary role models.

“J.R. you have one heck of an imagination.” I

said while shaking my head.

As I started pass the dining table I noticed one

of the chairs pulled out of its place. Partly instinct

and partly my OCD behavior, I walked over to

return it to its rightful position. As I extended my

hand to grab the back of the chair I froze. My eyes

bulged. My legs began to tremble. I could feel the

heat draining from my body. Right in the seat of

the chair, as if someone had simply sat it there, was

a beautiful quill pen; black, raven feather with a

gold body and tip. Just before the tip of the pen

were engraved the initials: E.A.P.

Being a writer is a job for the certifiably insane.