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How To Write Great Pieces Of Literature

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The stable was full of horses today, their twitching ears and stomping feet mimicking the sound of the heavy rain outside as it thudded against the tin roof. It was dark and dusty all along the hall that lead from one side of the building to the other. All except for one stall, that is. This stall was neither dark nor dusty. It had been cleaned spotless, the wood neatly polished, the bedding made up smelling warm and dry, despite the wet dreariness of the outdoors. A lantern was hung up on the side, its' light flickering restlessly back and forth, as a figure paced about in front of it, casting his shadow across the hall.

"Vacant, empty, meaningless, vacuous.." The man's mouth moved in a manner constant with his pacing feet. "Bare, blank, hollow,.." His eyes scanned the darkness around him, searching. He held a journal in one hand and a pen in the next, scribbling illegibly all that came into his mind. "hollow, hollow.. That's it!" In one fluid motion, the man's pacing stopped, his lips closed in a content smile, his eyes shifted focus back to reality, and he closed the journal in his hand with a loud "pop" that made the filly in the stall before him lift her head.

"I knew we could do it, Celandine!" Leander's voice rose high above the monotone he had managed before, now verging on the childish squeal of delight. "Oh, the mind is wonderful, isn't it? Just like a library, things are categorized.. things are misplaced.. alright, alright, can't get ahead of ourselves. How does this read, then, Cel?" The man suddenly composed himself, and opened his book once more, seemingly to read from a page he had previously written. He cleared his throat. The horse remained alert.

"The room seemed to me like a seashell; the walls were bare, the furniture was sparse. I took comfort in the way the air tasted of salt and the sound echoed all around the place. I would no longer be vacant, I decided that day. Not for Anna or Mr.Reynolds or Laurence, but so that I could be hollow, like a seashell."

Leander inhaled a quick, nervous breath, and held it there in his throat as he looked down to Celandine. When the horse did nothing but stare back at the man, his knees buckled beneath him and he fell to the ground in melodramatic anguish so utterly spectacular, he wished he'd had an audience that wasn't just made up of equines. "Oh, you're right, Celandine! I'm a failure!" he wailed. "Should have just killed her off at the bit where Laurence goes off to war. What was I thinking? What great piece of literature doesn't end with a suicide. It's brilliant - it's romantic, sexy, dramatic, everything I will never be nor will ever be able to write." he groaned, cradling his journal - full of wet ink - to his chest. "Now I've got ink on my shirt and, look, now my hair's gone all wrong with the rain and the humidity..."

After a while of sniveling and whining, and still no break from the rain, Leander's little brown foal must have had enough. She made a loud whickering noise and extended her nose out towards where her owner was curled up against the stall door, presumably, though she couldn't see him all that well, in the fetal position bawling his eyes out, with the mascara that he always denied using running down his long cheekbones.

At the encouraging sound, Leander's head rose above the stall door, looking just as Celandine had expected. "That's a good point, though." the man nodded, grinning and looking more wildly inspired than ever. "Who ever said that pieces of literature can't have something new and exciting and hollow about them? Very good point, indeed, Celandine."

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