Sharing Sunday – Ink

Sharing Sunday - Ink

Today’s Sharing Sunday piece is by a young writer by the name of Max! I’m not sure where he’s from (I’m going to assume it’s somewhere in the Americas from the spelling diferences!) But here’s his story Ink and here’s a little bit what he has to say about this one: Basically my thoughts going into this piece were at an all time low. My writing process is so untraditional and absurd. I do not think about what I am going to write. I never have any idea or clue as to what is going to spill out of my fingers onto the paper. I simply just write. This specific story is mirrored in my direction, how insane writers can be or seem to be, physically or just with their words. In this case it is both. This story is essentially me, a psychotic writer who uses his words as drugs, to sedate the reality outside his bedroom window. Every writer experiences writers block, and when they finally do write something it is terrible or just plain insane, as if they were on drugs. This story combines those two elements of frustration and puts them into the perspective of a hallucinating and paranoid writer, who’s only remedy to the madness of reality is to write.

(ps from me It’s also really good to be back guys!)

I hope you enjoy Max’s piece! Leave him a comment down below to let him know if you dig it.

Ink

There was always the urge to continue the writing, to add to the seemingly endless plot of my fictionalized existence. To slit my cerebral wrists and spill the ink onto the page relieved the daily stress of the physical reality. To write became a beautiful distraction. Not even the drugs could transplant me into a garden of thought such as what the ink does to me. I have to consume words and burn them into thoughts and write write write, everyday, I have to drink the ink so I can later regurgitate my own biological, single celled words and wipe them up with paper.

But of course my urge inevitably becomes satisfied, and I will not have to write for about a week at the most, and after a week of wading through a hazy dream state the words come back, they grow like mold in the aqueous membranes of my subconscious and I have to dig them out with a pencil and paint the words on the paper.

Burning the hours of the clock away with a match, smoking a pipe of ink dipped tobacco at my escritoire, facing my typewriter like an opponent. I thrust my fingers like daggers at the keys in hopes of breaking them or bashing my fingernails inward and puncturing a vein of ink until the paper is marked. I need to paint upon the canvas, I need to add color to the plot. I procure the mellow dream drugs.

There is an obscure, hedonistic outlook in the core of the pill that is dissolving in my stomach, and the pleasure flows like a river through my tangled being. I chase the pill with a cut diamond glass filled with deep blue ink. The words bleed down my throat and settle in my blatter like water on sun drenched sod. Beautiful thoughts fizz to the scalp of my hairs and bounce around in my skull. I smile at the euphonious breeze that seeps around the trees like water and tides through the windows and into the house, where it walks around like a ghost. The words materialize before me like a prism of ink and float around the room in vague teasing motions, finally directing its attention to me and the typewriter.

A brief sensation of an old memory washes over me, and the memory digresses into a dream, and the dream a sentence, and I reach for the keys and crash upon them like waves of an ocean filled with thick, dark ink, and the keys tap in obligated accommodation to my raconteur fingers, and the words spill like water and ice and then the cut glass is dropped and the diamond glass shatters and cuts my fingers and I bleed and bleed and bleed the black ink, the mainline to my fiction is punctured and I spill my mind onto the paper and I can feel the pain leave me as I burden the paper with my pain and my wonder and my ink.

The wind rushes into the house and arouses me like a physical being, and I stand up alarmed, the chair falls at my feet, and I rush to the window and scream out into the dewy night, the frogs croak back in raspy burps, the air is warm yet it cannot be trusted. I feel the memory swell like a bruise in my head, it grows and pulses with a life, it frenzies with plot, and I remember that the memory is in fact a dream, I vomit the last of the words out into the moist grass below, a rabbit skitters and dashes away, smeared in ink.

Stomach satisfied, I grab the pile of words inked on the crumpled, yellowing paper and toss them like pigeons out the window.

About the Dreamer

Puzzling, amusing, unsettling loving…a typical description of characters from young writer, Max Reagan. Published for the first time at seventeen, the success fed his need to write and develop identifiable characters. No stories are alike, and his ideas seem to be endless. playing with feeling and banking on the fact that you will love them all, each open and short story gives an identifiable character in a perhaps not-so-familiar setting. We find ourselves deep in their world, cheering and aching for them all. The endings are never predictable and we can’t help but want more. You can find more of Max’s writing here.

Mandi is a writer, reader, dreamer and is breaking procrastinating inner editors, one at a time.

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