Fiction

            The sun fell slowly out of the window, leaving his desk in dark monochromes. Still his pen scratched the wanderings and ruminations of his main character, and with each twist in the plot the imagined man grew. He wrote of old men rooted into the sides of mountains and seductive women swaying in wheat fields.

            Finally he closed his desk and stumbled into the moonlit streets. Around him the street lamps towered into flaming torches and from a side street a dark woman emerged. He squinted and exclaimed, “I have just written you.” “I know,” she said, touching his collar.