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The pen was breathtaking, and he had to have it. The barrel was a deep glossy black, with tiny, bright red speckles throughout. The cap, decorative ring and ball point assembly all looked and felt like they were made out of solid gold. The ink delivery system was one of the best he had ever seen, writing with a thick, solid, and uninterrupted line of rich, brilliant color. He was amazed at the action, and despite the weight of the pen, his hand never once cramped when he used it.

There was a rune of some kind burned into the barrel, and while the shop-owner claimed she didn’t know what it meant, she did know that the pen was somehow special.

“The claim is that the owner of the pen will never suffer from writer’s block.”

That part had ended up being true, at least. His output had increased exponentially, getting more words down on paper than he ever had been able to produce before.

His teachers at school and the members of his writing group all said that he had finally found a fresh and innovative voice. Since buying the pen, he had published six short stories, two novellas, and had just been signed on by a prestigious agent. That big advance was so close.

Then the pen had run out of ink.

He went to the office supply store, even tried the factory direct warehouse that the university ordered from, but no one could figure out what kind of ink was in the pen. Nothing seemed to work or flow the way the original ink had, and, to his horror, he found that his mind was actually dulling slightly, the words now out of reach.

So he returned to the shop. When he had originally bought the pen, the owner had been somewhat cagey about its origins, but now she told him right away what the problem was and why none of the inks he had been trying would work. He needed something that would be a little harder to come by.

“You should know that things like this come at a price,” she said. He had actually thought about this before buying it, but had never considered anything beyond the actual price tag.

So it was special ink, so special that it wasn’t available at any store or direct from any supplier. He couldn’t even try raiding hospitals or donation facilities because, for some reason, the blood had to be freshly spilled, the tip of the pen dipped in, as life drained out. The first kill had been nearly impossible for him, but in the end, he had the motivation to do whatever was required in order to harvest his ink.

After all, the words were beautiful.

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