Red Dirt

October 27, 2013 § 1 Comment

“I have ink but no pen.”

Anne Sexton

The narcotic tingle of possibility, running up and down her body, skiing around vertebra moguls. She feels words kicking. Her fingers tremble, but reaching, falter in the empty, finding no pen. So the white page lies blank and passive before her.

Hands scramble madly across her desk, flipping papers and textbooks and other voices into the air as she searches. Panic is a corset. Words rise and prick against her hot skin.

Breathless she craves the pen. The explosion of ink across the page, spreading thickly over the once-white surface. Corrupting and polluting, but creating. Planting something growing in the warm darkness.

She breathes for the swell of the pen in her hand, the pulse of words that come. Something bewitching rising from the stains. Trapped by the pen, by her need for it, she’s at the mercy of its coming and going, not her own.

Frantically scrambling. She rips sheets from the bed. Frames from the wall. Drawers upended on the floor and in the mess, she finds nothing.

The door crashes from its hinges as she plows through the doorway, falling to her knees in the dirt, the words roiling inside her, voracious for release.

Her fingers caress the wet red dirt around her knees. She trembles, glancing down. Gasping, suddenly. Words. Words coming through the dark red and she realizes. No pen. She writes in the dirt with her finger.

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