23 April 2007

fresh ink

     She sat in the calm serenity of the darkest midnight. The smooth black ink flowed readily from the silver tip of her faithful pen, onto the ivory-colored paper. She held the pen up to the moonlight, to measure the level of ink and estimate how much more she could write until she had to go inside to get another. Only a tiny sliver of moonlight shone through the little window. This pen would surely last through the night. She held the pen up for awhile, slowly turning it side to side to watch the ink flow. She imagined herself shrinking down to a couple millimeters or so, and thin enough to slip through the silver tip of the pen. She'd slide right through and make her way up in the tube, to go for a midnight swim. Immersed in black ink, she'd paddle her arms and kick her feet, and once in awhile come to the surface to get a peek of the midnight moonlight. Then she would drop down, somersaulting backwards through the warm black ink..

     Her human-sized fingertips slowly and rhythmically moved the pen back and forth, back and forth, while her wide eyes watched and her meditative mind flowed with the ink inside.

     When it came time to sliver out of the silver tip, her ink-stained skin collided with the midnight wind and sent chills up her miniature spine. She wrapped herself in her imaginary velvet robe, thick and blood-red with a giant hood to block out the cold.

     Warm and almost dry, she put the pen to the paper and continued to write..