My Creative Writing

Her face so insipid, delicate. Clashing with the harsh blackness, turning it angry. Black highlighting her lips and nails looking so vibrant against the pitch whiteness of the background. The light reflects of the newly washed apple, still grasping the last drops of water as if they are precious.
   Her shoulders are bare, white, shadowless. No colour except black and white: dull, lifeless.
   White... Black... White... Black...
   ...Which colour next? Repetitive. On going. The same.