Characterization.

I want to create something and someone new.
Something with new life breathed into it- that exuberates everything
usual in the world of literature.

Where is he, this pallid figure with the face that has become
a dark and shallow pit- he looks to me as if to ask
his name. It is a question to which my answer is sorely;
tired and unsure.

“I don’t know. That is a very good question.” I say back to him.
He outlines my penmanship with the very tip of his finger and asks why I have never finished a novel and I
peer at the floor as if it is suddenly some miraculous sign from
above that will enlighten me with the correct response.
It is not and he senses the fear in my gait whilst I back away.
“You have no answer for me, then?”
My mind drifts to remote streets just outside the city, booming
with sound and unfamiliar dialect and strange, new faces.

“I know who you are.” I say softly. His head tilts
as if to quantify my statement- as if to assume that it was some
accident that it was even spoken. His face is lightly illuminated
by a sparse light that I have ignited with the tip of my finger, my
fingernails becoming flame and my
hands billowing into dark, searching
shadows. I wave my arm again and it becomes a
paintbrush, and I slowly turn its brushed resin handle in my hands,
examining its dry tip.

“Show yourself.” I whisper, as he
holds still and I run the soft bristles of the brush over

the tip of his nose. And
show he does . .