The blank page looked perfect in the absence of scribbles. No marks to tarnish its appearance.
But the blanker the page was, the messier my mind felt. The blobs of ink that refused to make its mark on the paper, left scratches on my mind mercilessly. I sat in front of my writing journal drenched in the invisible ink that I kept away from the page.
My hand trembled under the weight of the pen. Or was it from the lingering musings?
This flash fiction piece is written in response to the one hundred and twenty-seventh edition of Fiction Monday for the word prompt – INK hosted at Reflections by yours truly. Do join in if you have a tale to tell.
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