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I'm using that typewriter you gave me. Do you remember it?
Birthday present. Sophomore year.
You probably wouldn't recognize it. I covered the periwinkle with black spray paint.
I couldn't stand the blue — it was too much like your eyes. Too much like the toxic color of the bruise on my hip.
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YOU ARE READING
Out of Ink | A Short Story
Short Story❝What if he didn't leave ... what if he disappeared?❞ highest rank: #27 in SS 1st place for Best Tragedy in the Crystal Awards 2016/2017 2nd place for Short Story in the Crystal Awards 2016/2017
