Ink Stained Hands  

Posted by inkstainedhands in

I found this little piece from March 2008 in one of my notebooks, and I thought I might share it in honor of my reaching the 100 mark. It has also just been published on Teen Ink's website (Teen Ink is a magazine by teens and for teens), and if you are so inclined, you can vote for it here. One vote is allowed per day. Apparently, the more votes I get the higher my story will be ranked, so that sounds cool.


My ink stained hands, pure white with smudged black puddles covering the fingertips, are the finest poetry I have ever beheld. They tell of far away mountains, impossible romances, the racing of the heart as it is exposed to the most beautiful work of art. They are witness to those many late hours spent dreaming, writing, creating, and being inspired as I inhale the intoxicating perfume of the ink. They caress the paper in imitation of the paintbrush that tenderly kisses the canvas before it. These black, dirty fingers glow in my eyes like the darkest obsidian, hinting to unexplored depths in its impenetrable darkness – to eternity.

I see midnight skies, the mysteries of their unattainable spheres bewitching me as I hold my breath. I see passion – brilliant, maddening, beautiful – in the intimate way the quill rests between my fingers, everything covered in ink.

There is beauty in that stain left behind by the completion of a beautiful verse, and there is poetry in the blemish covering my index finger like the most faultless rhyme. There is enchantment in the way the ink smoothly flows out, seductively posing on the lines of the paper. The very wind races, spurred on by the magic.

Its very blackness is the sunlight at dawn, rising to illuminate the world. It is the happiness that suffuses the heart, making life worth living. What drug can be so presumptuous as to claim to be more entrancing than the art of the writer or more exhilarating than the fragrance of that ink, set on paper in elaborate swirls and smeared all over my fingers in shapeless blotches? This is the immortality we so desperately seek and the bewitchment we have been dreaming of unraveling and possessing.

This entry was posted on Friday, February 19, 2010 at Friday, February 19, 2010 and is filed under . You can follow any responses to this entry through the comments feed .


This actually connects to something I once told you about the fact that all novels and stories and characters and ideas are, otherwise, just blots of ink shaped into characters. It's always fascinated me, the amount of potential that ink (or any other form of writing) has...

February 22, 2010 at 1:32 AM

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