Story

I thought I'd written the story perfectly.

It felt perfect when I had the pen on the paper and let the words just spill out - they were perfectly arranged and articulated in every sentence. But then I destroyed it by tipping black ink all over the table and by watching helplessly as the darkness seeped into the script and all over the words I'd so carefully woven together.

By the way, did I mention that this is a story of two and not just some stupid fairy tale about Little Red Riding Hood? This was meant to be kept carefully under lock and key but I made a mess of it. Trying to wipe away the ink with my hands only made the black smudge and dismember what little words were left.

I think I said sorry in my haste, and tried to recover everything I could but I now accept it is gone. I remember so little of that story now - all the perfect scenes I'd painted with words are now in the dark and I can't see them any more.

But give me a chance - I'll write some more and correct the mistakes and undo the missing words to create new ones. And I promise I can, and I promise I will compose something more special then the one that went before.