Staring at the wall. It was so close he could
have touched it. Plasterboard painted light orange, brush marks, streaks,
although you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t looking closely, if you
weren’t examining it. Then the angle where it met the other wall, the corner.
He could have touched that, too. Was this why he came here, to stare at walls
and the corners they form? The sheet of paper on the desk. He had decided to do
it the old way, longhand, but all he had managed was half a page. It wasn’t
good. He knew the importance of making a start, and the flow of words that
would inevitably follow – he wasn’t a beginner – but he couldn’t get his head
into it. He couldn’t get his head into it because his head was somewhere else.
His head was miles away, hundreds of them, where his body should have been... To read the rest of the story, go to Under The Fable