Ficly

The Author

Arnold tapped his pen against the desk as he stared blankly at the piece of paper. He sighed, and gave the room a cursory glance every now and then. What could he write about? He was stuck. By his estimation, he had been sitting there for almost three hours, yet he hadn’t written a single word down.

He cursed, and threw his pen down defiantly. He hadn’t a clue where to start. Several hours passed, and then, with strenuous effort, he picked up his pen and pressed it against the page. He would force himself to write. He wasn’t going to sit there for a minute longer. He started to write about an office. An ordinary office, with ordinary contents. A writing desk, a chair, and several paintings placed haphazardly around the room. Arnold turned away from the paper to rest his eyes for a split second, then looked around in disbelief. He was in his bedroom just a moment ago. But now, he was sitting at a desk in a brightly lit office. Then he realised it. It was the same room from his story.
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