I wrote this piece in 2011, after visiting the Hemingway Estate in Key West, Florida. I looked through the bars that had been placed at the top of a stairway, peering into Ernest Hemingway’s writing studio. As I stood there with a crowd of tourists like myself, I felt very alone.
This piece appeared in Death Zone and Other Stories by Pantoum Press in 2011
If you enjoyed this, please share.
The Royal typewriter sat silently on the table, the wooden chair was empty.
He wrote A Farewell to Arms, sitting in that chair, at that typewriter, in this room.
Listening, the room echoed of keys pressed, bars of type smacking the paper through the ink ribbon.
It was hollow and faded; a tape that had played too many times and lost all meaning to those who saw it as a tourist attraction on a double-bill with six-toed cats.
They do not see the history.
They do not feel the soul.
And that is when Hemingway truly died.