The writer laid down his pencil. “I suppose that’s it then,” he though
The writer laid down his pencil. “I suppose that’s it then,” he thought. “I’ve run out of ideas but writing about writing,” he thought. “Not much reason to keep on with it,” he thought. Then his evening-lit white writing room door had a knock on it. He went to see. And it was a dear blanket that he had lost in childhood. It had grown up since their last meeting, just as he had. And it stood man-size in the doorway, just as he did. The blanket gesticulated. “Old friend! I thought you were lost,” the writer cried out. The blanket took his hand and they rushed out and down to the fairgrounds. They ordered sausage and pepper stuff and then mint chewing gum for breath, and then on to the rollercoaster that reached up and started down. At the end of the night, as the car headlight beams were pulling out and away, the pair did a wrestle-hug like the old days before. It became clear that the blanket had a bus to catch. They parted, turning back to wave three times. As the writer walked home on the dark dirt road between pine tree sections, it was getting cold and the stars were really out. Still Eating Oranges -- source link
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