wrote my way out

i wrote my way out

 

It’s a dark stage, even for a night like tonight. A glimpse at the hunched over back of a dedicated and focused writer sitting at a desk on the northern wall of the room reveals that he is scribbling something on a piece of paper with his right hand, while keeping his canvas in steady place with his left. He pushes the paper out from under his pen and gets another from the dwindling pile to his left, all in one smooth motion.

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kuyper | prologue

Cold sweat dripped down his forehead as the alarms sounded behind him. He faced a choice he would never even have considered until now. This should not be happening – no one should have to face a choice like this. He pinched his forearm and shook his head, whether trying to clear his mind or wake himself up, he wasn’t sure.

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The Adventure of the Missing Criminal, Part 9

Holmes made his way towards the tobacco-slipper and put a small heap of shag tobacco into his well-used pipe.

“I do not think we’ve heard the last of Sebastian Moran, Watson. The police think he has left England, but I think that his every intention was to stay.”

I was used to Sherlock’s deductions, of course, but reading intentions was a different matter altogether.

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dust

The last lamp flickered. Fear filled the dry air until the lamp returned to a dim light, followed by an exhale of relief. He gazed at the light wistfully for what he told himself would be the last minute, and tore his eyes away. He picked up the rucksack filled with the few possessions he owned from the dust floor. Continue reading “dust”

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