Midorea - View topic - WINNERS ANNOUNCED! The Autumnal Campfire

"I can't think of a damn story to write!"
He threw bundles of paper to the floor, clasped his head in his hands, and counted to ten. Anger gets you nowhere mate, he thought to himself, just calm down and start again.
He sighed and picked up his pen, then sighed at the pen, which, having getting caught up in his paper flinging maelstrom, had decided to leak all over the rest of the papers and desk.
He sighed yet again, counted his own sighs for the hell of it, then went to bed.

The ink from the pen slowly slid across the paper, creating black blotches in its wake. The blotches then began to twist themselves into abstract shapes and drawings...

He woke up, convinced of hearing a rustling sound. Quickly flicking on the bedside lamp, he sat up and glanced around his room. Then stared at the floor in wonderment...
"Self-cleaning floors?... Awesome."
The floor remained stationary, as floors generally do, especially with the lack of paper from earlier writing block related tantrums. Sure now that this was a dream, he turned off the light and went back to sleep.

The ink, having consumed all the paper, was now beginning to gain some form of solidity. The fact that it had quickly swept its way under the mans bed suggested a primitive sentience growing within it. It slowly began to crawl its way up the legs of the bed...

He awoke again, convinced this time of a slithering sound.
"I swear if those pathetic teens next door are throwing things at my house again, heads shall be rolling..."
He pulled himself out of the bed and stared out the window. No hateful teens were present. He turned back to look at the bed.
"Hmmh... Was the bed always this dark?..."
He stared at the bed for what seemed like hours, though the clock would confirm it was about five minutes.
"Bah, I need sleep."
Climbing back in the bed, he glared at the ceiling for a while, certain it was to blame somehow, but eventually slept, dreaming of potential stories.

Having now reached the mattress, the ink slowly sunk its way through it, claiming it all as its own. It then moved up to the blanket... Any observer who was a little out of the ordinary would probably say it was enjoying itself, with the pace it was moving at... But there was no such observer, or perhaps they would have warned the man when the ink finally moved towards him...

The flat was searched several days later, after neighbours had become distressed that they hadn't seen him in days. Nothing was found in the flat except one piece of paper, blank. The police took it and sealed it away in a plastic bag in-case any prints were to be found, but nothing was discovered...

One year later, to the second, reports were filed all over the village of writing appearing all over their walls, ceilings and floors. The same two words, over and over again. Police eventually attempted to connect it to the missing man, and bought out the piece of paper they took before. Ink filled the bag, and as they opened it, it flowed out and started to cover everything, leaving the same two words in its wake: