Spilled Ink

Pen, paper, and a black puddle of ink.

In her writing room, Elissa’s pen had exploded. The author knew this was just another reason that writing her manuscript by hand wasn’t a good idea. Impractical, her overbearing husband had called it. But she knew this was how it had to be done.

She was trying to recreate that simple magic. The impeccable way she had written the wild success that was her debut novel. She longed to be twenty once again. Sitting in her childhood bedroom with nothing but pen, paper, and an idea. That time had been fickle, and since then, the ideas stopped flowing.

The five published stories following her debut had, for a lack of better terms, sucked. Critics tore them to shreds, and her name was long forgotten. Her creativity, inspiration, and marriage took a tumble. She always knew her husband was only interested in her success, and since she was a success no longer, he constantly pressured her to finally write something good.

She was one bad book away from a divorce.

Elissa stared at her ruined manuscript. The ink enveloped her written words and swallowed up the world she was trying to create, lost like it never existed in the first place. Not that she had much hope in the idea anyway. Maybe that was her sign. Yeah, this isn’t going to work out.

She had half a mind to scream wildly, swipe all the contents off her desk and punch the wall until her hands bled. How many times would she have to start over? How many ideas would she run through, just to decide they were garbage anyway. She was a writer dammit. Why couldn’t she just write? She had everything banking on this book. Her marriage, her livelihood, and frankly, her bank account.

They say everyone has at least one good story in them. Maybe that was all she had. Just one good story. The rest, nothing but chicken scratch.

The temptation to scream was great, but her exhaustion was far greater. All she could do was hang her head low. She didn't even have the energy to cry.

“Please…” she whispered to herself.

“Please, I just need one good story. One more success.”

She stared longingly at the mess on the table. “Please…”

A ripple.

At first she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. The poor late night lighting creating illusions in her head. Then… It happened again. The silky pool of ink stirred.

It was moving on its own.

Slowly, jet black tendrils snaked over the length of the paper, which grew and grew until the whole page was shrouded in a blanket of black. She watched with bewilderment as the ink then sunk through the whole stack of pages, until it reached the very bottom. It then traveled off the page, and back into an innocent little puddle on the desk. As if nothing even happened.

What on actual planet earth?

Elissa tried to work out a rational explanation for what just happened. It took her a whole minute to process what it left behind in its wake. Words.

She reached out a hesitant hand, stroking the page, and flipped through. Words on every single page. Full sentences. Chapters. A structured story.

Impossible. It was impossible but somehow, it happened anyway. She pinched herself, and smacked her own face for good measure. It wasn’t a dream. That spilled ink had written itself into a completed novel. In less than a minute.

That night, she didn’t sleep. Her office light remained on, as she read through every last bit of that magical, perfect story. She dissected every phrase, examined every comma. The threads of a masterpiece were woven within those pages. Dare she say, it was better than her debut success.

To be quite honest, it was almost insulting. This magic pool of ink wrote a far better novel than she ever could. But…this could be it. Her ticket back to success.

Her marriage, fixed. Her bank account, filled. But her livelihood… How could she live with herself? Knowing the work was not her own. Elissa may be desperate, and she may have lost hope, but she had not lost her integrity.

She couldn’t publish it.

Stuffing it away was the only solution, so she tucked the novel in her desk and slammed it shut. Then, there was that puddle of leftover ink. She should just soak it up with a towel and throw it in the trash. Be done with all this impossible madness forever. But… the ink was magic. How could she just discard it? It was a wonder to this world, a marvel to behold. All hers. It could be her secret. As long as she didn’t use it to publish a novel, she could enjoy its wonder all to herself. After her mind was made up she grabbed a little glass jar, and funneled the remaining ink inside. She made its home next to the manuscript in the drawer, and as soon as it was shut, the door to her office suddenly opened behind her. She spun around to find her husband staring at her, and tried to act like she hadn’t just witnessed a miracle several hours ago.

“David!”

“You never came to bed.” He stated blankly. “Hope you were working, and not staring at the ceiling. You don’t get ideas by watching the paint crack.” Clearly he hadn’t had his morning coffee.

She laughed bitterly. “Yeah, David. I was working.”

Without another word, he turned and walked off to the kitchen.

Yeah, David, I could use some coffee. How very thoughtful of you!

No, David, I’m not working too hard. Thank you for being so considerate!

I know David, I’ll get out of the slump eventually. Thanks for believing in me!

Those were just a handful of the phrases she’d kill to use in a conversation with him. But alas, she knew none of them would ever leave her lips. She knew David was tired of being the breadwinner, but damn if she ever met a man as cold as him.

That day while her husband was at work, Elissa didn’t do much. She thought about trying to write a story without the help of magical pen ink, but it all seemed pointless when the perfect novel was just lying in her drawer. Instead she sipped the leftover coffee–which wasn’t enough for a full cup–and thought about the little things.

Little things, trapped in little glass jars…

The day went by in spectacular mundanity. Later, she left the house to try to spice it up, and found herself at the park.

Even then, she thought about the ink. What it could do… How it could change her life. Fantasizing kept her occupied until she realized her husband would be returning home soon. Her mind carried inky thoughts on her walk back to the apartment.

When she arrived, it seemed to be as empty as she left it. She threw down her keys on the kitchen table and made her way to the office, deciding, maybe I should just see if I was imagining things.

Despite her previous assumption, she quickly discovered that the house wasn't empty. Standing in her office was David, holding the magic manuscript with the dumbest look of bewilderment she’d ever seen.

“Elissa…”

“David! What are you doing in here?!” She snatched the stack of pages from his hand but it was too late. She knew he already read it. He looked taken aback by her reaction but was too amazed to be angry.

“Elissa, how could you not publish this? It’s…it’s better than anything you’ve ever written! You can’t just shove it away!”

Ouch. Thank’s David.

“I–I don't know,” she cried. There was no way she could tell him the truth. He would never believe her. In the back of her mind, she knew she could prove it to him; the ink was right there. Elissa just told herself she didn’t know if the ink would write again, but really, she didn’t want to share her precious miracle. It was just one special thing she had to herself.

“I…just didn’t think it was good. I didn’t want to risk another failure.”

David’s eyes lit up like never before. She had never seen that look throughout their whole marriage.

“Elissa. It is that good. We’re gonna make more sales than your first novel. You’ll be going to book signings and interviews for the rest of your life! This needs to be published.”

There was no way on earth she could get around it. Before she knew it, David was contacting her editor, a publisher, the president of the United States for all she knew. The gears were in motion before she could blink, and there wasn’t even time to panic.

Okay… Maybe this was fine. Yes, she’d be known for something that didn’t come from her own mind, and her career would be built on a lie for the rest of her life. But no one would ever know that. One thing she did know was that every success came with a bit of sacrifice. This was just the burden she had to bear, but it would be worth it. Despite the lies, she had to rationalize it, and tell herself this would be good.

And oh, it was good.

In the months following, she lived a life that only manifested in her dreams. The book came out, and it was a smash success. The internet was raving, and she signed just about a million copies for newly devoted fans.

Not only that, but like she predicted, it was great for her marriage. Even better for her checkbook. The lies weighed on her less and less as time passed on, and eventually dissipated completely.

That’s why, when the book needed a sequel, she didn’t hesitate.

Then the sequel became a trilogy. At last, a saga.

That vile of ink became the fuel for her every achievement. The way those tendrils spread across paper was nothing short of mesmerizing. They might as well have reached their way into her brain and enveloped her mind along with every other page.

Now, all she had to do was manifest the final book in her award winning series.

The ritual became a familiar comfort. It always happened at night, when her husband was asleep. An adequate stack of papers was placed upon her desk, and the jar was lifted from its resting place. Then, three times she would swirl it around inside, watching the beautifully deep substance glide against the walls of its container. She’d then pop off the lid, and let it drip out. She filled her heart and mind with the essence of the story she wanted the ink to craft.

Like clockwork, there it went. Those lovely tendrils branched over stark white pages. It sunk deeper…deeper…

Then stopped.

She froze. It couldn’t be finished already. It wasn’t even half way through the stack. The longer she waited, the more the realization dawned on her.

The ink ran out.

How could she be so stupid? How could she not see this coming? She stared at that vial every night lost in the depths of all it had created. Had she really been so distracted that she failed to realize her supply was running thin?

This could not be. She would not accept it. Furiously she searched her office and dumped out the mug where she stored all her writing utensils. One by one she destroyed each pen, letting ink spill out in pools over her desk. With each failed attempt, she felt her mind and body become overrun with a panicked whirlwind of mania. By the time she had smashed and spilled her last pen, her hands were covered with ink past her wrists. It was when she saw this that she realized what she had done.

It was like a crime scene. It was a crime. To be given something so useful, so essential and precious, only for it to be taken away when you needed it the most. Black stains were everywhere, seeping into her desk, hands, and dripping onto the carpeted floor. When she noticed where it hadn’t landed, she almost laughed.

Like one last cruel miracle, not a single speck landed on the half finished manuscript. Somehow in her rage, it remained completely untouched. She almost felt like finishing the job, if she only had the heart for it.

The loss was devastating. For weeks she dragged her feet until finally accepting that she had to finish the book herself. She had read the whole series, how hard could it be? She was a writer. An award winning celebrated writer. But as soon as the thought crossed her mind, the devastation of the lie hit her like a train. With the ink, she was unstoppable. Without it, she was just a fraud.

Elissa tried anyway. It took many months, and she missed all her deadlines. Once again her husband grew tired of her. The series lost its hype, and when the final piece was out, it crashed and burned. As did Elissa’s life.

David left for good, and she was broke. That would all be bearable if only she had a shred of dignity left. This was it. What she had warned herself against when she saw what the ink could do. Now she was living out the hellish plight of a phony.

Her solitary apartment provided very few comforts for the hermit lifestyle she grew into. She reduced herself to an online proofreading service to make ends meet, and longed everyday to relive the glory that the ink brought her. It wasn’t even the success that drew her in. It was the entrancing way the ink pulled together her greatest creations.

As time went on, she tried to rebuild the foundations of her life in small ways. Better proofreading gigs, writing classes, even a part time job. The past still haunted her, and inky thoughts crept into her mind whenever she wanted them least. But she was moving on with her life the best she could.

Finally, things were really looking up.

“We’d like to hire you on as our new Editing Specialist!” the man said over the phone. This job would be it. Her ticket back to a normal life. It wasn’t everything she set her heart on, but it was a start and that was all she needed.

Elissa ended the call and settled into her desk chair with all the satisfaction in the world. There was nothing more she could want, and for once she was truly proud of herself.

She put her phone face down on the desk, next to a pen.

Her gaze lingered. No. Don’t think about it.

It was impossible. The ink was one and done. Never to be meddled with again. She was sure.

The way she placed her hand on the utensil was almost completely out of her control.

She shouldn’t.

The pen popped open.

She can’t.

Ink spilled onto the paper.

It won’t happen…

The puddle was still. Of course it was.

Then, a ripple.