/lit/ - Literature

I wrote this story about 6 months ago in response to a prompt in my World Literature class. The prompt was to write a story about Calvino and Borges having a conversation without using words. Let me know what you think.

The air was still as the two men sat motionless at the table; the room seemed hushed as if some great tragedy had befallen the patrons simultaneously. Needless to say, it was not a lively place. Men and women stood fixed in their place, endlessly framed in their roles. Not necessarily the roles they dreamed of, but ones slightly more real, the roles thrust upon them by fate and circumstance. Slowly one man at the table raised his arms, brushing the tweed of his earth-tone blazer against his thinning white hair as he put his hands on top his head and sighed softly. Dust blew across the table as he exhaled, raising ghosts that had lain there for an hour or perhaps a century. Who was left that could tell anymore?
The men, we shall call them players from now on, sat in silence. They had been playing the game for as long as they both could remember and yet no rivalry had arisen. No tables had been flipped, no glasses thrown, no barfights to impress the Bukowskis and Hemingways that still sat in their place at the mahogany bar. Not even a word had been exchanged, only a firm handshake and then the game began. The object of the game was not fully evident to the mild observer, but if one stood long enough watching, an occasional instance of rhyme or reason could be glimpsed. A certain flourish as a piece was removed from the board could have indicated a great victory, or the imminent great defeat that so often follows great victories. At this point in time the other player, for the sake of what clarity can be found we shall describe him as a slightly younger man with the patriarchal curse of thinning brown hair and a sweater worn over a shirt and tie, was staring intently at the board.
The board was a globe, stationed squarely between the two players and vibrantly colored in brown and beige. It represented a time when the world was still youthful. A bygone era where sea monsters were imagined to roam the seas and the devoured Vikings frequently proved that much can be accomplished through imagination. This was the stage for the game, a board that never had an end or a finish. The globe did have one flaw though: it did not spin. For, as we all know, a man stands rooted on this Earth blissfully unaware of the terrific speed at which we are being flung through the ether.

to be continued.

>>1272374
I don't think every photograph can be considered a piece of art, it's got to do with the 'found art' thing.

But what about this picture? Totally not art... right?

Dear /lit/, I am in the process of writing a script and need some inspiration, could you direct me to something written or based around the 1940-1960s?