The words refused to be denied.
When he worked, while he cleaned the bathroom, as he ate his morning fiber, they were there.
He tried ignoring them and that made matters quite bad, since they backed up like cars on an endless highway; he cajoled and paid them lip service, attempting to placate them into silence, but to an even worse end. They spoke loudly, rattling their consonants and howling through their vowels, allowing him no peace.
He finally acquiesced, and began taking them down as they came. They were complacent then and he kept his pockets full of paper scraps and writing instruments; he wrote so much of what they said that he was mistaken for a miner or soot-cleaner, appearing so often covered in lead filament.
“Why does he always have a pencil and paper? Why does he scribble so?”
His co-workers began to whisper furtive questions behind his back, but he cared not.
He had made peace with the words, even though they refused to be denied.
AR Neal lives in multiple dimensions, and you can find her in any one of them at any given time. She is the Cave Mistress here at The Scribe’s Cave. She writes book reviews and other things for Flash Fiction Chronicles. She puts out pieces of flash fiction at her regular blog. She lives to serve a house full of four-legged and two-legged creatures (known as dogs, cats, a soon-to-be-on-his-own son and a very artistic husband). She reads more than she sleeps.