She was always one of those people who seemed to have a love affair with passionate chaos. Her life and mind was a whirlwind of ideas and adventures and other things that could be but probably wouldn't. She fought for what she believed in, but questioned everything. There was not a single topic off limits when it came to her.
Her room was the absolute definition of passion. Papers littered the floor like a blanket of snow, peppered with thoughts that would be lost if she didn't get them down. She was always clacking away on her typewriter or gliding across some form of paper with black ink. It was always black ink; never blue, red, or any other color.
I suppose if I were to have any regrets it would be that I never got to ask her why she was so committed to the black. That was yet another puzzle that added up to the mystery that she was. I've solved many mysteries in my life, but she was my favorite.
I now fear that her case has gone cold.
YOU ARE READING
What He Wrote
Short Story"I hate how the human race complicates things. You're born, and then you die. The space between that is a grey area. It's a blank line. It's all up to you on how you fill the line. You can write good or bad or spontaneous or wonderful-it's up to you...
