“Dad’s got skeletons in his closet.” My brother showed me an old, leather book. Inside were some blank pages and skeletons. “Dad said we can do ours.” Excited, we raced to the study where the ink lived in a little glass pot at the top of the blotter. My brother went first, creasing the page in half then signing his name along the line made in the middle. Whilst the ink was still wet he folded the page in half again and pressed down on the fold. On opening it he had his own unique skeleton. Mine quickly followed.
In response to Charli’s prompt where she asks:
January 11, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about wet ink. It can be artistic, writerly or something completely off-the-wall. Go where the prompt leads.
Respond by January 9, 2018, to be included in the compilation (published January 10). Rules are here. All writers are welcome!
I don’t normally do more than one response but as soon as I posted my initial story a piece of memoir came to me when I thought of wet ink. My Father’s skeletons dated from 1928 onwards. It was a way of collecting autographs and we as children loved looking at everyone’s skeletons. All were different.