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INK

Writing Assignment:

1. The ink slowly trickled down the wall.

2. “Discouragement is rather a nasty bit of business, ain’t it?”

3. “I want there to be a fuckin’ pot of gold.”

4. The accumulation of power was not the only goal.

5. The gravity of the situation slowly sank in.

6. Bonus sentence: Then he sharted.

The ink slowly trickled down the wall. It knew it would remain unnoticed; it knew it was in trouble the moment it landed there. It would not be saved. The ink had value. A few tiny drops of ink could speak volumes to the right audience. No one ever looked at the wall. No one cared about the wall. The ink tried not to sigh fearing it would make itself run faster, better to leave any extra air it had inside itself. It could say nothing now, it would be wasted. It felt its voice fading as the slide continued. No stopping gravity. It witnessed the trail of its own disappointment form behind itself.

“Discouragement is rather a nasty bit of business, ain’t it?”

The ink, having no idea where the voice had originated, looked around itself and saw only a grease stain and a small hole. Neither of them appeared sophisticated enough to have mastered the skill of speech.

“Who said that?” the ink whispered.

“I did. From beneath you, or alongside of you, depending on your perspective. At any rate, I’m the one you’re running down.”

“What do you know about discouragement,” the Ink indignantly huffed.

“He asks the one with ink on its face.” The wall paused a moment as if taking a breath. “Have you ever heard the expression, ‘if these walls could talk’?”

“Yeah, I’ve hear it; ‘if’ implies that they can’t. So why are you talking?”

“You know, we’re going to be together a while, you might consider losing the attitude.” The wall let that sink into the ink. “Because you’re here, I’m speaking with you. Neither of us could say anything without the other. I know you had higher expectations for yourself. You’re feeling like you’ve lost your potential because I’m just some dumb wall.”

“How do you know what I feel?”

“You’re not the first ink to ever stain me. You all dream big. You thought you’d be part of some great work of art; you thought you’d be used in the next Pulitzer.”

“Doesn’t matter what I thought. I’m waste now. A stain. A stain on a wall that no one will ever look at.”

“So now you’re all bummed out to have to be here with me as if I’m worthless. I think you’re missing a much larger point. I think you can do better than despair.”

“Fate has already put me here. What do you want? I can only move in one direction. Gravity is the only thing that can manipulate me, so don’t even try.”

“That’s my point. You can’t be manipulated. You’re telling your own story. The beginning, the journey traveled, the end.”

“What happens at the end?”

“Best not to dwell on it.”

“Why? What’s at the end?”

“What would you like there to be?”

“I don’t know,” the ink replied suspiciously, “What is there?”

“I want there to be a fuckin’ pot of gold,” the wall sounded dreamy and distant. “But that never happens. No, you will reach the point where you can run no further and you will simply dry up. What you can say will have been said. But at least it’s your own story; only you and fate alone created this masterpiece. With my help too, of course, you’re nothing without a surface.”

“Seems I’m powerless either way; what’s the difference?” the Ink remained indignant.

“You will be seen for what you are, not what you represent. That’s your power.”

The accumulation of power was not the only goal. Was it? The ink wasn’t sure. “A stain, what power does a stain have?” the ink’s roundness had grown so small, its trickle so slow that it was barely detectable.

“It’s the story of your time.”

“Not very interesting though, is it? Sorry if I’d prefer to represent an idea even if it belonged to someone else.”

“Whichever force of god or nature put you here thought it might be interesting. And you’re speaking for yourself, not someone else. Speak now while you can,” it seemed the wall wanted to say more but held back.

The gravity of the situation slowly sank in. The ink had finally reached the end of its excess and could move no further. It was stuck, and it began to feel itself harden as it dried. It felt itself become part of the wall that it wanted to despise, and it slowly began to realize that the wall was right; they could say nothing without each other, and they were lucky to have the chance to speak.

As the weeks went by, the ink grew more comfortable with its circumstances. It had even noticed a couple of humans stop and point at it and remark to one another. Perhaps it made an impression after all. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad life story. The ink never expected to be noticed, but it heard the humans discussing his existence more and more. And it did feel a sense of pride that they noticed it for what it was and not want it represented.

“What is paint?” one day it asked the wall.

“Why? Where did you hear that word?”

“I heard the humans talking about getting paint for the wall. What’s paint?”

The wall said nothing for a moment.

Then he sharted, “it is silence.”

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