Writing it Down - John Fetto

Hawley wrote in the garage on the table he built from two by fours and topped with half inch ply wood, setting the beaten wire bound school book between the skill saw and the vice. The plywood was unfinished and needed more sanding, but he didn’t touch any of the machinery anymore. He took the notes from his pockets, arranged them on the table, then took out the chipped plastic pen and wrote the dates, the times of every time the van rolled up. He wrote it all in on the wide lines of the school book, trying to write slowly, but his fingers would speed up when he’d think about the men who carried the boxes, the smug looks and grins, his fingers would tighten and the pen would dig into the page. He’d have to stop, cross it and start over. He wanted people to read this, no matter what happened.