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·215 words·2 mins
Flash Fiction

The muffled clack of letters striking against the typewriter’s platen filled the small room. A fireplace’s dimming light threw shadowy lines across the paper as the Flying Oliver’s strikers sailed through the air. Stopping halfway through the page, Edward ripped it out, and looked at it. The light from the extinguishing fire gave the paper a yellowish hue. Frowning, he placed it face down on a haphazard stack next to the typewriter.

His eyes roamed about the room, lingering at the ceiling light, dark due to the power being cut off. His gaze drifted to the ornate bookcase that ran the length of the opposite wall. The spines of the books seemed to sneer at him. The long shadows stretching over the shelves faded.

As the darkness pressed in, the whispers returned, oozing from in between the covers of the books. Pressing his hands against his ears, Edward approached the fireplace.

With a swift motion, he pushed his foot to the back of an overturned chair, and broke off a piece from the base, throwing it onto the embers. Crackling light roared into the room, and the whispers receded. Staring into the fresh blaze, images filled his mind. A new storyline resolved.

Racing back to his desk, he loaded a fresh page into the typewriter.