Writers have a love-hate relationship with words and I am no exception. I am convinced that words have their own agenda.
By Candace Colt
Glazed periwinkle blue, a clay jar sits alone on the window sill. Loosened, the cork stopper no longer shields my stash from daylight’s glare.
Single file my words escape to the floor, sidle past the sleeping cat, and bow to those who lie in repose on bits of crumpled paper.
The motley parade scrambles onto the blank page and jostles for a position like misbehaving schoolchildren; jabbing ribs, batting heads, and pulling shirts.
With self-satisfied smiles, they whisper. Take the pen, give us life, or else we die.
I take pity and write till my hand goes numb and my knuckles crack.
When the ink runs dry, they still come.
The little bastards never utter a single thank you.
Played like a fool by my own words, I reseal the jar to quiet the others.
Almost too late, I realize their plan to exchange my life for theirs.
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