Writing On the Page
I write my compressed lines that buzz with
imagery and suggested themes. The sentences curl up like flags, rolling after
my hand. In the story I create, the monologues and reflections come patched in
rounded blots of ink.
Soon, my pen shreds and tears the paper as I write; the page beneath it
shows covered in past writing. As I develop my scene, my pen rips pieces from
the under-page; the free, little bits mix with the words I am writing until there
is no telling them apart. The next phrases I scribble tear from the page and
scatter. In fun, I sweep the fragments of text so that they spin. The gaps and
tears made by my work leave a shape of broken edges on the sheet before me. I
stop writing and lift the page toward the lamp by my table. Carefully, I read
the words as light pours through the torn paper like a long hoped for radiance.
Norbert Kovacs
lives and writes in Hartford, Connecticut. His stories have appeared or soon
will appear in Thrice Fiction, Westview, Gravel, STORGY, and Ginosko Literary Journal. Norbert's
website is www.norbertkovacs.net.
Tags:
Short Fiction