Little Inklings 2022

BLACK WHO’S THE WRITER? THE STORY I walk out of the office. Another article to write. I take another look at the photo they have given me. Black- the color of the eyes of that man. That man who murdered dozens, and then escaped from prison. That man who is now running on the loose like a wild animal. I sigh. “That man is my next story.” I didn’t realize I had said it out loud. A mother pulls her child just a little bit closer. A man starts walking a little bit faster. People around me start looking a little bit more concerned. That’s me. The “crazy” journalist. People know my face, my voice. They know that I talk to myself. I’m not crazy, though. You can’t be a journalist who writes about serial killers all day and not be a little bit odd. Black- the color of my shoes as I look down, hiding my face from the surrounding people. I feel like a spider. Always looking so fearsome, always avoided, always lonely. But no one knows that you’re just as scared of them as they are of you. Black- the color of that harmless spider. Black- the color of my studio doors as I walk in. Black- the color of my chair that I sit in. Black- the color of the ink on my paper. The story flows along, and I don’t even have to think about it. I’ve been doing this job for so long that the words just go straight onto the paper, hardly passing through my brain. I fax my story to my editor, and he will take care of it from there. Black- the color of my cat as I walk into my house. Black- the color of the sky that night. Black- the theme of my dreams as I sleep the night away. Black- the color of the silence that is interrupted by the harsh morning light. I sit up slowly, walk to the door. Black- the color of the newspaper with my story printed inside. Black- the color of the eyes of that man, right there on the front page. Black- the color of my name right next to his. I toss the paper onto the bench and continue on with my day, struggling to shake the strange feeling I have about this man. Go to work, write another article, come home, eat dinner by myself. That story should mean nothing to me. I go to bed that night just like I always do. Black- the color of the room once I turn the lights off. Black- the color of my blanket that I curl up into. I’m about to fall asleep when I hear a strange sound. Black- the color of the door as it squeaks open. Black- the color of the shadow that walks into my room. “Stay back!” I yell, scrambling into a sitting position. Black- the color of the man’s mask as he slowly walks towards me. Black- the color of the gun he pulls from beneath his vest. Black- the color that my blood looks like in the dim light of the moon. I can’t see the man’s face, but there are holes cut out for him to see. Black- the color of the man’s eyes. The color of the eyes I have stared at so many times on the front page of that newspaper. Black- the last color I see before my own eyes shutter closed and the world disappears. GINGER SEABROOK ❜ 26 78