“You just have to write. Write like your life depended on it.” I didn’t like the tone in her voice. It was on the brink of being sinister.
I sat down before the empty notebook, picking up the odd pen. I drummed it on my arm, thinking. I’m just not one of those people who can write on command. But I felt a curious sensation when it hit my skin; almost an angry spark
“Well?” she asked impatiently.
“I’m going, I’m going.” Rambling ususally gets something going.
The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog…
I cried out in pain. There was a long scratch tearing across my left arm. I dropped the pen in horror to squeeze the cut. I glanced at the sentence which I’d just written: the pen had spilt ink-blood on the page.
I looked at the fiend sitting across from me at the long table. “Well?” she asked, amused. “You said that you love writing.” I nodded begrudgedly, picking up the devil pen.
“Besides,” she mused as I gritted against pain, “cuts can heal.” She laid a gun on the table. “Bullet wounds can’t.”