Frown Not Frowning
A Flash Fiction
His face is one big frown. Not frowning. The expression is in the features: his brow is heavy, low and dark; his cheekbones thick and high; his eyes deep set. He looks — no, peers — intently, his gaze penetrating architecture, like Superman.
Yet there is gentleness in him — in the way the crinkle forms between his heavy brows, betraying his uncertainty. A dimple sneaks out beneath the rough tideline of his beard. He smiles and frowns at the same time, his head cocked to one side. A serious smile. He looks out of his wide grey eyes as if he would deny you nothing. And tell you anything. And yet, he says nothing at all.
At times, many times, he is so full of words he can not speak. But, above all, in his gaze, there is such rare and fragile hope.
If his words could be free they would say so much; everything. But he has been used to keeping silences, to protecting secrets for the sake of others. Instead, he deposits thoughts inside books that move him. He stands on the cold, windy beaches and lets the harsh wind blow the words out of him. He blows his words, in turn, across the head of pints he nurses in front of the fire, lets his eyes speak thoughts into the roots of flowers he divides and transplants in the garden. He looks up to the sky, pained, and sits in church, his mouth moving wordlessly, not saying the things he…
