The Magic Pen

Once upon a time there was a young author who loved to write. He was so wealthy from an inheritance that he could afford to do nothing but write. He made it a point to write every day. Write something. It became such a part of his life that he fantasized a dreadful, horror... that when his pen ran out of ink, his own blood would stop flowing.

He would die.

So motivated, deluded as he was that his life depended on it, he wrote daily. Every evening he would not retire for the night until that day's installment was finished. Sometimes he didn't sleep, fearing an incomplete story would be followed by his complete death.

But he accomplished it over and over. He lived on, and the ink continued to flow. He supposed his pen was a magic pen, because his daily stories now numbered in the thousands.

"I really must go out and buy another pen," he mused to himself, then laughed, because the one with which he wrote showed on signs of slowing down. And the words that came out of it he would never trust with any other writing instrument. He dared not take the chance.

The years went on and the stories, stapled together on two to three sheets each, began to stack up. Occasionally he heard some flitting about in the papers.

Must be a mouse, he thought, and then he wrote a story about the mouse who would read to her little mice children.

Once, a candle fell and almost set a tall tower of loose stories on fire. He swept in and saved the situation just in time. So, he wrote a story about a fireman who was always so afraid of showing up too late for a fire that he showed up early for them, before they had even started. Strangely enough, they always started with him there, before anyone else, to be the hero and prevent serioud damage and loss of life.

One he caught his pup chewing on one of the stories, after which the dog seemed ill-tempered toward his master. So he wrote a story about a boy who had a paper tiger and fed the otherwise ferocious beast happy stories so that peace and harmony ensued within the household.

One day, there must have been a bubble in his pen, because the ink stopped, but only momentarily. Rolling the ballpoint on the paper finally resulted in some ink flow after a couple of empty sentences on the page.

The story was about a man with a bad heart. The empty sentences on the page told about the time he clutched his chest and felt frightening palpitations. When the ink began again, the man's shortness of breath resolved, his arrhythmia straightened out into a nice and regular rate and rhythm, and he stopped perspiring. The young author's own perspiration had dripped onto the page and smeared some words the man in the story was saying to his wife. At this point, the young author was a little befuddled and foggy but was still able to end the story.

It had been a story about the man's confession to his wife about prostitutes, but the ink-smeared changed the words, which the young man didn't bother to fix because he thought it made a better ending to a cautinary tale. That evening, pleased that the successful parable had ended so tidily, the young author had terrible pain in his pelvis which became unbearable with his bodily functions.

His doctor made a housecall and gave him a very painful injection of bismuth for prostatitis, which strangely enough, prompted the physician to ask about any cavorting, on his part, with any prostitutes.

His recovery was slow but progressive. Even in pain, the young author contined to write daily. He made a paste to seal over any problemic smeared words, having — like the man in his story — learned an important lesson.

One day, he began writing a story about a mean, racist, hateful woman who many had feared had a black heart. Then the main character was visited by ghosts of past, present, and future, and she experienced a change of heart. The young author was amazed to see his ink change colors, coinciding with the hateful woman's change of attitude. From black to red. He finished the red-inked tale and, when he began to write anew the next morning, the ink that flowed was once again black — but smelled of cheap perfume. He wondered, had she really had a change of heart? He tried to revisit the story, but he had already placed it somewhere, hopelessly inconspicuous in one of the many paper towers.

After over 20,000 stories, wobbling in steep stacks in his home, he experienced writer's block. He could not think of an new idea or unique plotline — not even a memorable character — that he hadn't used before. The young author became haunted with the thought that there was a last story looming in his future. In his fate.

It was to be a story about a magic pen that ran out of ink. He tried to put these disturbing ideas behind him, but his block continued even into the evening. He was in trouble and he knew it.

He began his story, in defiance of his writer's block. He would begin it with something — anything — and hope the magic ink would flow and do the rest.

Once upon a time,

he wrote,

...there was a young man who loved to write. He was so wealthy from an inheritance that he could afford to do nothing but write. He made it a point to write every day. Write something. It became such a part of his life that he fantasized a dreadful, horror... that when his pen ran out of ink, his own blood would stop flowing.

He would die.

He stopped.

Was it that the ink had finally stopped flowing? Was it that he only had 71 more words left in him, which hung on the page for dear life. He, too, seemed to hang on the page for dear life.

Regardless, he didn't like what he had written. He seized the sheet of paper and crumpled it up angrily, after which he collapsed.

Some say he was right about the ink running out, and in this case it was before his own story could be told. Some say destroying the page carried over like similar sentiments had inspired the fireman, the paper tiger, the man who cavorted with prostitutes, and the woman with the black heart.

His life was words. His words were over. Did the ink make the words or did the words suck the ink from the pen, filling the vacuum in the young author's life?

And then there are some who say he had nothing to live for after his imagination ran out. Like his ink.

Indeed, like the ink, it was his imagination that kept him alive, because his imagination was his living. The young man's very last story was unfinished, which waxed ironic with how his life was now.

Inspired by L.C. Shäfer's post, https://vocal.media/writers/the-next-big-thing-hdxa0cko