Her feelings clawed at her soul as she sat brooding in the corner of her room.

Her anger
overwhelmed her. She felt as if she would burst. She thought nothing could console her.
She took pen to paper and began to write out whatever was inside her. Her hand moved quickly
as the letters began to cover the sheet. Each new penned word struck her as something brilliant.
The pressure inside of her decreased with every sentence that decorated the once empty page.
Her written thoughts were gold in her eyes.
She continued to write and never looked back. The ink began to smear beneath the pen, even
though her hand never brushed against it. It moved on its own and spread across the fibers
around it. Veins of ink ran from each letter.
She failed to realize the change that was occurring before her. She only knew that she breathed
better as the sentences became paragraphs. She refused to look back.
Her anger dissipated, but something was wrong. The ink slowly ran from the sheet and onto the
desk. Her words were no longer just letters. The ink flowed freely, independent of the pen. It was
becoming a wild being. It formed a puddle that dripped off the desk and onto the floor.
It had entered the world.
A stream of ink found her hand and wound itself up her arm without her noticing. It was not
until the ink had reached her elbow that she noticed the black. It had a mind of its own.
The ink was looking to destroy her.
It continued to move up her arm and to the door. What could she do to stop it? She rubbed at the
ink, but it only spread to her other arm. Without warning, a shrill shriek filled the air. The ink
had swallowed a person. Seconds later, another scream met her ears.
The words had claimed another.
She had to stop the ink from consuming her. She went to the sink and attempted to wash the ink
off. She scrubbed violently and yelled out for help. It slowly dissolved into the water and
disappeared down the drain. Afterwards, she tried to stop the ink from spreading to others, but no
matter how much she doused the desk in water, the ink continued to seep from the paper.
With little hope, she set the page on fire and watched it burn to ash. The ash simply flowed
down the river of ink. The source could not be stopped; the eternal spring simply continued to
spew forth the pitch black liquid.