General

The desk was a recycled wood upon strong iron legs, each at a jaunty angle as if it was stretching before a pleasant jog. The wood was upcycled, I think they say, and I wondered if had once been a door. In the grain were flecks of colours that many front doors in this neighbourhood are, so many vibrant hues in every season, like rainbow freckles. I wondered how many smiles it had seen, how the many had seen it and felt the relief of coming home. Yet for now the desk was my doorway into adventures of words and imagination, the tip toes of each emotion I write in pixelated ink.

General

Upon that desk, on those sea-worn planks, was a book of soft green, not the washed out hue of winter time, but the strong pea-green of the summer.

General

The desk was perfect in its imperfections, made more wonderful by the passage of time and the age in the wooden swirls. Under my computer I placed a knitted mat to even out its gentle undulations. There was a piece of folded card beneath one of the legs to keep it sturdy and stable, just a fragment of a birthday card from some beloved aunt. All in all it was a place I could entice my dreams to dance, to take the stage and never care for a bow or to hear the applause of an audience. It was a place to let the shy-creative diva twist and land, always gaining confidence, always growing stronger.

General

The desk was an old mirror frame with the wood of fruit crates nailed over it in short stripes. It was the sort of shabby chic that made my heart skip as a child may in a flower meadow, or perhaps that is my inner child who plays. Either way, it was a fine desk and the place that the things that make me tick came dancing out, every time.