Still Writing.

Legs move. Stiffly across the linoleum they drag their wooden heels. The author bends to his table and lowers to his chair. His eloquent hands grip the table and he tucks himself in. He stares ahead, searching the curtains for words, and does not watch as his fingers move to rest on their keys unsupervised. His fingers drum out impatience on the keys but not hard enough to bring any words into existence. He begins. His left pinky holds down the shift key as he generates his first capital letter. Letters slam onto the page, dizzy and disoriented. His brows furrow. He hesitates, then reaches for the paper. The paper does not resist as it is torn out and balled up in hands that spurn its contents. The cold linoleum accepts the author’s offering. He closes his eyes, rolls back his shoulders, pulls himself up straight against the back of the chair. He balls up his fists then stretches out those ten individual fingers, putting as much distance between them as possible, a huddle and break. His fingers are ready now to tame the keys they ride into eloquence. They begin to type. Brows furrow. Frustrated, fingers dance, no, stomp across the keys and spawn cacophonous nonsense. With a rip and a crunch, the author restores the silence.