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The Desk

By Karl Fonseka

The large, empty room was so dark that the peeling, grey walls could not be seen. Only the soft and gentle sound of dripping water could be heard in the lonely emptiness. And in this dark, dusty and dripping room stood a desk which was illuminated by narrow streaks of light pouring from the cracked ceiling.  The desk had a surface made of dark oak wood. The varnished wooden surface of the square desk reflected dampened and unusual patches of light back at the onlooker. The wood was ridden with dark flecks that followed no visible order to the eye. The grain, straight contours to the wood, ran parallel to each other and streaked the surface. These lines were occasionally interrupted by a ovular knot in the surface. When this occurred, the strokes would flow perfectly around its shape and the subsequent scores on either side would follow this pattern like ripples in a calm pond. The legs of the desk were made of a dark metal, the paint peeling off and revealing lighter colours in blotches. All four were cold to touch and yet gave life to that which it supported. The desk, evidently worn and battered, looked weary from use. However, it stood steadfast still, defiant to the last.


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