Greetings Friday Fictioneers! Before I get into this week’s post, I have an apology to make. I am not the world’s greatest reader and commenter, which I know is very bad of me. When I can find time though I enjoy reading Friday Fiction from around the world.
But this week, my computer has begun behaving strangely and for some reason will not load the shortcuts on the linkup page, meaning that I will struggle to read many stories at all until I can find out why. I’m sorry, I will miss the weekly fiction fix and I will try to read from work when I can.
And now, Rochelle‘s prompt pic:
and my this week’s effort:
It was at this desk that he wrote the novel for which he is remembered and revered today. The novel which has become a central pillar for literature courses throughout the world, English-speaking and beyond. The novel by which many say all others are and will be judged.
No more novels followed his first into print. During the remaining thirty years of his life he completed eighteen more, but he never considered any good enough even to be sent to his publisher. Yet he wrote every day, and died at this desk. The blood stains and the gunpowder residue remain.