The old desk

 The old desk bore the scars of kids with pocket knives. It had been handed down for generations and, per his request, finally reached his house because he'd actually use it for what it was meant for: writing. It would need some TLC as the years had taken their toll, but nothing some elbow grease and sandpaper couldn't fix. He decided to leave the top as it was, with all those little hearts and initials carved by mischievous boys throughout the years. There were four small drawers that he used to store paper and folders, hard copies of his writing, and ink cartridges for the printer. The fourth drawer held finished stories he had written over the months and years, a resting place for characters he had given life to but who now stayed silent in the darkness of the closed drawer.

He had cleared out his soon-to-be writing room, where the finished desk would sit, allowing him to see out the window. He was often inspired by the weather or the quiet, interrupted by a flock of birds or by his dog barking for him to let him inside when he lost track of time and the words begged to be written. He believed in keeping things simple and distraction-free, where he wrote. A two-tiered shelf held a model motorcycle and a large snow globe beside a framed picture of his grandmother, who was the first person to tell him he had a gift for words. A desk lamp sat at the edge of the desk, its beautiful green globe filling the small area with soft light, and a candle on the shelf, with dancing flames that dared him to write.
His first story with the old desk was everything he had hoped for. Its history fired up his imagination, and he sometimes stopped for a minute to trace a heart with his finger and wonder where that boy was today. Did he go on to become a famous artist after school gave him all he needed, or maybe a woodworker who built wooden boats? He traced another heart that read "Billy loves Susan," and he wondered whether they were just high school sweethearts who had parted ways, or had gotten married and raised a family.
Many years flew past as he continued to write at the old desk, filled with youthful inspiration by the tips of pocket knives gouging out slivers of old wood meant to last forever, just like the desk.

Mike   2026