Ink-Stained Fingers
The endless scratch of her pen whispered to him, enticing him over wordlessly.
“How long have you been writing?” he asked mesmerized.
She stopped scribbling and looked down at her ink-stained fingers. She could not remember picking up the pen, only the compulsion to write.
She gazed at him blankly.
“I don’t know...” she mumbled. Reams of paper lay scattered around the floor and across the small wooden table. She began writing again.
“I don’t know...” she mumbled. Reams of paper lay scattered around the floor and across the small wooden table. She began writing again.
He sat down opposite her at the table and picked up a page. Silently, he began to read.
...and the world around them ceased to exist.
Words: ©2019LCR
Image: CCO
Love short stories , always that waiting for it to continue
ReplyDeleteThis one started out much longer. I had to pare it back quite a bit to make it fit the 100 word count. But I like how it could be set in a gothic castle or a local library. It's pulled out of time in a way. Writer and reader intertwined forever.
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