Another tea sits stagnant on the paper filled desk, the third of its kind in a matter of days. The papers have exploded into an organised mess of typed ink-filled words. Pen dashes are scribbled exuberantly back and forth, marking a previous lack of judgement. Books that should stand upright and confident lean without the strength in their spine, until they fall down like a malfunctioning accordion.
A lone 'Royal' typewriter sits nestled on the side of his desk, waiting for its moment to be utilised as a tool rather than sit as an object of fascination. Light filters into the room from a broken and wooden parallel blind. It falls slightly crooked from years of use, with knots tied in its strings.
Silence fill the walls, and only isolated pipes creak from use in another room, yet this room is still, it is silent, and it is waiting. If you listen closely, carefully, you may just hear the author’s thoughts as he pauses analysing his next sentence.
Until, finally, the patter of fingers dance joyfully upon the computer keys, telling untold stories that should be heard. This is an author, a researcher of history, and a passionate storyteller.
This is me, the Teller of Yarns.