I am writing an article. Not for me, but ghostlike, behind the scenes.
The Intro. That is where I start.
Some, I have heard — the other ghosts — bash out the middle bits quick-sticks, then tag an intro and a conclusion on the ends, like slices of bread around bacon, lettuce and tomato.
BLT ghosts. They are silent like me, for the most part.
I caught myself staring, half blankly, not at the screen, but at the glowy space between my head and the white wall, some one metre distant.
The small voice – the one in charge of the time and its alarm, neatly dividing what remains of my deadline into quarter-hours, as if oranges, starts thrumming, sotto voce, then booms, crescendo.
You must go on. Continue, stop dreaming.
I am not, replies the Thought. Wait.
And then they come, the keys on the keyboard stutter out aloud, like the rhythm of a fado from my long-ago heart: the perfect words. They’re here.
They stand astonished on the page, and look at their new neighbours, then settle into the space allotted. They agree: We like it here, they say. We’re staying.
©2019 Allison Wright
P.S. In this fado, Barco Negro, sung by the famous Amália Rodrigues, there is a rhythmical, short sequence of notes that helped lend form to the half-sentence that started out life as a blank stare.