Ink

“Better a blot on your hand than on your soul.”

     Jolted out of her trance, she glances away from her paper and pen for a moment, glad to escape her writers block. Ink smudges her creamy smooth white hands, delicate fingers marred, pigmented in no order of pattern. Blurred where a delicate thumb moistened by her mouth rubs gently, attempting to remove unwanted blots. Back and forth, in small circles, managing only to smear it further. Dark lines, fine lines and grooves, the lines that make each individual unique are now underlined, blackened, emphasized by where the ink has run into them. Jet colored imperfection. It is strange how something unwanted and messy brings attention to the familiar and ordinary, making one think about what is there. The lines of one’s hands tell so many stories. Christ with his scars, and old man’s calluses, a young lady’s manicure, a housewife’s wrinkles. A lifetime’s worth of knowledge on a few layers of skin. Returning her paper she is able to write once again.

Author's Note

I wrote this on a whim one day, I can't think of a title yet but I'm happy to take suggestions. As always, please be honest with your reviews, I grow from criticicm. And thank you for reading.

Reviews

[A. L. Allen]

As always, this is a very insightful write in a small amount of words. Very nicely done! Your observations on life are very deep and meaningful. :)


I think a good title for this would be "Ink". I know, it doesn't have a lot of flare, but I think it fits. If you don't like it, I won't be offended in any way if you don't use it. :)

Once again, very good job. :)

[Elaenor Aisling]

Lovely work.