He dips his pen into the inkwell. Lifts it carefully, tapping it gently on the edge of the jar before moving back to his paper. His fingertips, forever stained with the heavy black ink, never hesitate. Not a moment passes where there aren’t thoughts and ideas swirling inside his heart and mind, stories to be told in a few short lines. There’s a old wooden clock on the wall ticking away the moments he’ll never see again. His writing quickens. So many things to say. He knows he’ll write until there’s no more strength in his fingers. Other than the clock, it’s just the scratching of the nib you hear. Periodically punctuated with ejaculations of fury or a sharp bark of laughter. In the corner sits a worn teddy bear on a three-legged stool. It’s soft tan fur now matted and thin. It once held the affections of the little boy who used to sit in the very same place, silently watching his poppa create. His light brown eyes always observing, absorbing, but he never did learn how to speak. He hasn’t sat on the stool for decades while the aged man he once watched still writes and writes and writes.
tara caribou | ©2019