She is a child of movement, constant motion is essential. Pens across paper, ties on highway, sleepy eyes on the wild world. She runs a lot, probably more than she should, never the fastest, never the slowest, just movement. She takes her coffee black and drives a minivan that tells you more about her than she ever would. She doesn’t belong in Ohio, thinner air and higher elevations are required for survival so she moves. Constant movement. She doesn’t know what flash fiction is but the sound of short bursts of conscious human motion appeal to her like a scratched back. She likes writing because she likes movement. Pens scratching backs, scratching paper, leaving trail, something to follow like breadcrumbs once she’s in too deep. She doesn’t like dairy, she eats a lot of fruit. She surfaces when you least expect, a rise from sleepy eyes that wander because they are tired from movement.