Writer's Block (a flash fiction piece)

There are no letters she can reach so sounds will have to do. Stringing them together like popcorn, there is a pattern, if no sense. She’s left them all uncertain and so they’ve drifted away, one by one, scattering like birdseed. Pigeons linger outside the window, cooing breathily.

At one time she would not have minded, but she’s found that writing is difficult without actually speaking. No one wants to be interviewed on paper, or by flashcard or sticky note. No one wants to work that hard, and if they have to write their answers down they might have too much time to think about them and revise their viewpoints, opinions, cross stuff out. It tends to taint things, when people have to consider themselves in print, before you’ve had a chance to shine it up a bit for them.

People are afraid, too; it’s one thing to choose not to speak to them, that can be mysterious, aloof, even sexy, but it’s another thing entirely to not be able to.

It was also becoming more difficult to write because as time goes on, her brain is forgetting the essence of what it is that she is trying to say. Words are becoming foreign; she thinks more in number and scent and color and taste. Big nutty crimson 4s, citrusy white 79s, 3s that look like blushing and taste like cotton candy.

It’s hard for them to understand, and she has no way to explain. Instead, she walks through the park in the early morning, swirling through the mist like a sylph; is it the mist that is translucent, or is it her? She avoids, but will make eye contact with the squirrels, who seem to get her view of things. She imagines what it might be like to scramble up a tree and spend the day poised high above.

She also thinks about him, but it’s of little consequence. They will never meet. Because he is from a long time ago. Because he made other plans. Because he is dead.

His face is a 123, a potent green, that piney taste of gin and something like cantaloupe. She opens her mouth to say his name, but finds she’s lost that, too.