Try Fry

Small clouds of white chalk powder gently flew from my hand as I made hard gritty contact with the board. The orange light of the approaching evening made the powder clouds look like colored smoke in a dance club. In the effort to keep my hand steady, I kept the white uncomfortably dry chalk in hard contact with the ash black surface. Do they notice? Notice the effort it takes me to write every single word? Even every single letter? I had to grind my teeth together to keep myself in check. Did I ever say how much I hate chalk? How it leaves your skin feeling as if the powder had separated every single crevice on the surface of your finger tips. Stuck in between the lines of your thumb print. Or was it the fact that I still was not over… (Read the full post about ‘Forever Wanderer’…)