The Story Killer
Vincent was alone in his study. A lamp hung in the corner, casting light onto the floorboards. It was raining.
His paper-strewn desk, stoic and heavy in the cold room, caught only a glimpse of the lamp’s glow. Vincent paced restlessly. The night had grown so long already and he had come up with nothing. He scratched his head and then his neck, as though to jolt some idea to life. He poured wine, his hand shaking so much that he spilled large drops onto his serving tray.
Recent Comments