by Barry H. Wiley
The Writer pressed up against his writing table, its edge digging into his stomach just above his belt – if he had been wearing one. He used a knotted rope around his waist. His left elbow braced on the table, his head forward, cradled in his left hand as his right held a pencil hovering above the yellow foolscap pad of blue-lined paper.
Hovered ... and hovered.