Stories in the Tiny Worlds Sketchbook are like a pencil sketch with words; loose, unrefined and not wholly a thing. But I like them and think there’s something here you might like, too.
The two men sat in their usual corner of the retirement home’s common room. A late afternoon sun cast long stripes across the worn carpet.
Most of the residents had retired to their rooms for naps, leaving the space still and quiet. But these two lingered, as they always did, spinning tales and sharing philosophies.
The first man, dressed in a silk robe, crossed one leg over the other and sipped his tea. “I only write when I’m dressed for it. Silk for thrillers—smooth and slippery, like the plot twists. You need to feel like the story’s seeping through you, right?”
The second man, draped in a tweed jacket over his worn pajamas, nodded thoughtfully. “Same here. But for mysteries, it’s tweed all the way. Makes me feel like I’m out solving the case, like every word I type could crack it wide open.”
“And the pipe?” the first man teased, gesturing to the unlit burled pipe sitting on the table beside his friend.
“Essential,” the second man replied, tapping it lightly. “Even if I can’t smoke it anymore, it gets me in the zone.”
They both chuckled, but the second man’s smile turned up, a delicious thought forming.
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