Landscape Running Away
She sat at the tiny white cafe table taking fast little breaths as she scribbled on the pad in front of her. The page was already covered with a tapestry of microscopic black letters, each one pressing impatiently against the next.
She stopped and sighed. What was it? Not a poem-not a short story-not an essay. Something she had never written before. Something with tulips and roses; bowers, vines, forests. A topiary or two. Something that could only be seen from far away when she squinted. A landscape running away toward her. Without characters. She drank her pale tea and nibbled at the last of the airy sweet brioche.
Without warning the page sprouted flowers like a wild, pop-up garden. She gasped and drew back in shock, her hands flung up to her face.
No one else in the cafe was surprised.
submitted at 5:15am
26 March 2009