Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Words.

If I could speak, I'd say exactly what I wanted. But I couldn't, ever since I was thirteen words just stopped coming to me. They evaded my mind and escaped me until I no longer had any idea of what words where. A Gospel of words, golden like a symphony was going out of the mans' mouth right besides me.
He had a neat stack of newspapers in his hand, cold December morning light emphasizing the words on the page -- seemingly just for him. He gave me an indignant smile, for a reason that I was unable to come up with. Somehow, it was as if he knew me or something about me. I gave him a face, one that was not as gentle. Although words were out of grasp for me, I could still rebel. The world, it was a wreck and I wasn't going to bend contort and twist to be polite. I slid my eyes over and looked over at the corporation across the street. A grey road burning into the ground, being constructed and developed.
"It's my house." The old man told me quietly, with a smile. I didn't comprehend why this was a matter of smiling. He stared at me with so much profundity, a rich texture of being around and knowing something. "They'll romp around. Destroy my land. I don't have a say in it. But its okay. It always is. I can listen to myself. Control myself. In the end I'd rather know that I hadn't said anything hurtful. To know that my words don't contribute to hurt or pain. As long as I am satisfied with myself." And on the bench, waiting for the bus I had nothing else to say. The man got up, and I handed him my pocketful of coins. He smiled but did not take them, using his own to get on the bus. I sat, numbly, feeling that ice shift and become glazed over me. For some reason, I felt okay. With me.

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