The Smudged Ink
Flash fiction
The boy stared at the paper and waited for the ink to dry. He hadn’t had the patience before; the sight of a drop of colour on dry paper would tempt him to touch it, leaving his letters smudged. It was the first time someone had given him a pen. It was not something for young boys like to him to hold, let alone use. But the ban on its use had only served to enhance his fascination.
The ink dried. He ran his hands over his letters. He then grabbed his pencil eraser and rubbed it over the page. The letters remained. They were permanent. Pencils made him feel uneasy. His words could be rubbed out of the page, like at school where they wiped clean the chalk on the board with a wet cloth. He longed for things to be. To remain. To not change.
He heard someone come up the stairs. He hid the pen away and shut his notebook. Perhaps someone had come to get him. Perhaps it was time to go to his new home.
