There was a subtle, yet over light that was cast on the desk as it sat there awaiting for someone to come in and use it once more.

It had been a long time since the desk had been used in that house.

It had been a long time before then since the desk had been used at all.

The last time had been many a moon prior, when it was owned by someone else entirely.

Once it had been passed on to the local second hand store, the desk spent a long time sitting in a window with a price that was most certainly not cheap, yet still far less than what a creation of its stature would normally require.

It was strong and sturdy with a surface that, despite many years of use, remained undamaged, still in a condition most pristine and surprising.

It had been kept away from moisture and still had its original finish.

The person who had the desk built it from hand over a long time, working to make sure that it was as good a desk as it could be, made from the finest wood that could be found.

It had a certain class and elegance, a certain power to it that stated that it was of a high quality, made with care and a strong knowledge of the craft of table building.

It had seen many a pen and paper, along with the occasional typewriter.

Its surface was smooth yet gripping.

It truly was a desk that should be owned.

Eventually it was bought by someone who wanted to begin writing and were moving into a new home.

To a room the desk was assigned and with great care it was delivered and brought into the room, placed in the right position that would maximise its efficiency.

Pens, pencils and papers were bought in preparation for when the writing would begin.

The curtains were left closed until it was time for the new owner to begin writing.

Days passed by without the door opening.

Soon it was weeks, months, a year. The door did not open. It was passed by many a time, but not once was it opened.

Dust began to gather on the desk, covering its pristine surface as well as all that which had been bought for intended use.

Throughout the seasons the layer grew thick, almost as though the desk was growing some sort of heavy fur covering.

The desk was not used and it seemed to be forgotten about.

It was a beautiful piece of furniture put into a room that was not seeing use.
It was put into a room that no one stepped into.

It was not being used to write on, nor were its drawers being filled.

The pens and pencils remained silent and the paper did not move.

And so the desk remained there in its position in a dark room, waiting for when it would once more be used and full appreciated.

The time it took to write five-hundred words: 07:55:12

Here is a story about a desk.

It’s alright.

Could have been better.

Written at work.