"Hi".
The statement reached by hundreds upon thousands of clever eyes. Connections clicked. Those "A-ha" moments. To some a random scribble of ink, to others
a drunken act full of regret. The owner of it, he prays for the moment it's purpose unravels. His inked body drips of black paint and the definition of silenced. Stretched out nights of green tea, overwhelmed expressions, and the daydream of saying "NO" for once. A name was never mentioned, but to some his whole presence resembles this paragraph, as for his partner in crime. If they can't scream it, why wouldn't they write it down permanently? We were born to speak of what we desired, so doing the opposite would be a crack in natural instinct. Caged birds they felt like. Steering their own boat they wanted to do. One day they would look at the aged clues sketched on their flesh and become proud that those dribbles helped them speak. But for now, they could only track the seconds.
YOU ARE READING
Dribbles, Drabbles, and Short Stories.
FantasyA collage of unedited entries that I conjured for a certain extra credit project. Not only for the grade, but as of a reminder of my work. If I decide to continue one of these stories, than so be it, etc.
