Thursday, 17 October 2013

It Could Only Be A Letter...

It could only be a letter from her. Dear Beatrice. She had always felt the need to cover every square inch of paper with her spidery scrawl, pictures and words intertwining in dead, black ink. Lifting the envelope off the tray, she sliced it open with a thin point of ebony. Tiny pieces of paper fluttered out, a new puzzle of words, waiting to be pieced together.

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