The Writing Desk Novels & Stories

But it just felt wrong right now, like the smell of a place where something had died. The study was neat with everything in its place. A massive mahogany desk sat in the center of the room with files and ledgers stacked in careful rows, a fountain pen laid beside them. The inkwell was still half full. Whatever had happened, it had hit him right in the middle of his work.

' "If you step into the white, you're 'off-script.' The Editor will delete you instantly!" At the end of the long, ruled corridor sat a desk the size of a castle. Behind it sat a man whose face was a literal blur of motion, as if he were constantly shaking his head 'no.' He held a fountain pen the size of a spear, and the ink inside it glowed with a predatory, crimson light.

He came in and looked at the room the way she'd looked at it the first time — not the assessing sweep of someone cataloguing it for tactical purposes, but the particular quality of looking that happened when a space contained something you'd been told about and were now in the presence of. "She described it," he said. "In her journals. The copper instruments. The smell of the herbs." He paused. "The worktable where she did most of the writing." He looked at it. "She said it was the right height for her, which she mentioned because she was very particular about the right height for working surfaces." "I know," Wren said. "She wrote about having it made specifically." She paused. "It's the rig

The room smelled of old paper and wood, the kind of comforting scent that instantly made my chest feel warm. But what caught my attention the most was the desk placed in the middle. A computer rested there, and in front of it was a really nice keyboard—the kind that writers dream about. I slowly turned around to look at Rome. He was standing near the doorway, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “You said once that you always wanted to write stories,” he said. My throat tightened. “And that you liked reading stories too.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the shelves before returning to me.

Just another Tuesday. As I was carefully dusting a large globe, my eyes kept drifting back to the desk. It was so… perfect. Not a single paper out of place. A sleek laptop closed to the side. A single, expensive-looking pen in a holder. And on the right side, near the edge, was a small, ornate drawer. It didn’t have a handle. It was carved directly into the wood of the desk, with a tiny, almost invisible keyhole. Mrs. Gable’s words echoed in my head. Do not open any drawers.

At the other end of the hallway is another door, which looks like it leads to the kitchen, or perhaps even the bathroom. The room is filled with strange items and objects. In the middle of the room, next to the big windows, stands a large oak desk and some shelves lined with books that take up nearly all the space. On top of the desk is an old fashioned typewriter, on top of which lies a pen and paper, and beside it, a box full of different coloured inks. Nearby, a large cupboard is also filled to capacity with glass bottles of various colours with what looks like colorless liquid inside them. They are probably decorative, but they give the room a sense of a nerdy witch's haven.

I said with a forced smile plastered on my face. I followed him into the room and sat on a more comfy chair in front of a rather large desk. The room was quite small but very orderly, with lots of boxes and files stashed neatly on the shelves. The desk was mahogany with green leather inlays and looked huge in such a small space. I couldn’t help but imagine that it belonged to one of the grander rooms upstairs at some point, probably replaced by a newer even uglier monstrosity. The bald headed man shuffled some papers on his desk, then looked at me over the top of his spectacles.

It was easy enough to find a large oak ‘L’ shaped desk in a light ash stain for the guys’ room. It even had a built-in, two drawer filing cabinet. A couple of smaller ones made of walnut in the same natural color were selected for Jake and Faith’s home. These were all added to the device in the salesman’s hand.

A frail old man on a wicker chair at the far end of the room, hunched over a desk, his quill moving in a frantic pace as if what he was writing is in dire need to be composed and hidden away. He barely looked up as small timid footsteps approached the desk, accompanied with a trembling shadow cast over the desk, sobs threatening to escape from the visitor. "What did I tell you about playing when you haven't finished your studies?" he asked, more like a reminder as he continued writing, eyes fixated on the parchment in front of him.

The lighting was low and moody, giving the space an air of mystery and intrigue. His desk was large and imposing, made of dark wood with ornate carvings and a leather blotter. On it was a phone, stacks of paperwork, and a revolver. There was also a photo of Andrea and Anna directly facing his table and beside it was another picture of a beautiful middle-aged woman. The walls were lined with shelves filled with books and trophies. With his white sleeves rolled up to his ankle, Gabriel dropped his muscled hand on the table along with the phone in it. Then he took out his glasses and rubbed his eyes a little.