The blot of ink fell from my shaky pen. A black pool on the white paper began a spin. First the few words were pulled from the page, each letter stretched into a singularity. Then I felt a strong pull of gravity, I tried to pull myself away from the desk. No use. I fell head first, feet kicking into that black hole no bigger than a coin. The whirl and twist was a spin that would not stop. I was left alone with my thoughts.

I had only wanted to get away from it all, find the disconnection to be connected to the words on the page. To do that, I had left it all behind. No electricity, I pulled water from a well. I felt my muscles grow with a block of ice in a box to keep my milk fresh and vodka chilled just right for the evening martini. A bunsen stove warmed the cans of chili and the flames in the fireplace breathed life into my bags of popcorn. The comfort of keyboard, the warm glow of the screen asleep back in my apartment, cuddled in city lights. No backspace to be lightly touched to take away what had been. I had to live with my mistakes. Or cross them out, but still to be seen. I had packed three reams of paper (the novel would be long, a bestseller), two old silver tipped fountain pens and a bottle of ink I found dust covered in a shaky red-bricked antique store. After I blew off the dust in a sneeze, I saw the brand: Wells and Burrough’s Fathomless Ink.

I fell and fell. My thoughts spun as well. This writer’s block had pushed my to my limits, to the very edges of my soul. Black and empty, just like this hole.

I fell and fell, faster and faster. Every cell stretched long. My whole body and mind felt oblong. Pull of pressure. Wrench of weight. Heave of force. Hefty heaviness.

I fell and fell. I gave in. No fight—-no more.

Then there was a pinpoint. Light. I reached its spin and felt pulled in another direction. The dark was gone and I could see. Around and around were, letters, words, phrases, whole sentences tumbling. I could read them in snitch and snatches, those I liked, I cupped in my hands. They wriggled and tickled and I wondered what to do. I had an idea, fresh and cool. I took my cupped hands and placed them over my nose and mouth. I breathed them in, what an aroma! I let them tickle my tongue and then a euphoric swallow in gulp after gulp.

I felt myself being pulled up towards a white plain. As I rose I saw two gentleman, both in a suit, tie and vest. One with a mustache and eyebrows just as big to match. The other clean shaven chin and cheeks, with just a few strands on the top of his head. They smiled and held their gray fedoras with their dark ribbon bands high. One said, “Carry on old chap!” the other, “Do your best, pal!”

I had no time to say farewell. I became as light as a feather and floated to the top of a flat field of white. I pushed my fingers through, then my hands then with one long press I found myself sitting on the rickety pine desk next to a piece of paper labeled one. There on that page was an ink blot that had begun to dry. Words were flowing from it in a spiral. They read:

The blot of ink fell from my shaky pen. A black pool on the white paper began to spin…

And you, dear Reader, I think you know how the rest goes. At least on that first page. But there is more. Much, much more to be written with: Wells and Burrough’s Fathomless ink and three reams of paper, minus one.