The Ink Man at the end of the "day" decided to go home. He brewed himself coffee. He takes it black. He sat on couch and tried to flip on the TV. The screen remained black and silent theme show music played. It was always the same thing on. Nothing.
The Ink Man laid back and sat there, staring at the black ceiling. The ceiling fan spun and spun around, blowing off the papers on his desk. The Ink Man, clearly annoyed, turned off the fan and stacked the papers on his small desk by the open window. The black clouds were rolling in quickly. The grassy fields appeared like a wave being blown all around.
Suddenly, a tiny black dot blew in and splat onto the paper. The Ink Man scratched his head at this sudden dot. Then another hit the table. Then another onto the window frame. He instantly realized what was about to happen...
As fast as he possibly he could he swooped up his dog and ran to the nearest closet. He locked himself in it, not able to see even a few inches in front of him. He heard the noise from outside picking up...
Then the rumbling began.
ČTEŠ
The Ink Man
General FictionIn the beginning there was nothing but white. How boring. Everywhere you looked. Up, down, left, right, forward, back. White as starlight, as a full moon, as the coldest snow. Barren and empty. Then the first ink droplet fell.
