Literary Ink Novels & Stories

Finally, if you're secretly a Harry Potter fanatic, Ravenclaw Academy: Quinley's reign will have you addicted in no time, watch out though-this is not a young children series as it ties in with my Hellraiser trilogy and has dark themes as an introduction to Hell comes in the form of a young demon who arrives at the Academy. I write full time and often on multiple platforms all at once. If you'd like to see some of my work's early drafts, follow me on Inkitt under the author name venom01. If you want to reach out to me and discuss ideas, follow me on Instagram, my handle is venom01_writes, and last of all, if you like my work please, like and review it! This profession is so hard to stand out

Bottles that contained with various liquid in different colors neatly arranged in every shelf. “They need the light this bright to determine the exact amount of each potion to make the right ink.” Lucas explained while leading Irina to the stairs in the corner room. “Why would the writers need different kind of ink? Aren’t they make the same book with the same kind of paper?” Asked Irina, her foot stepped on the stairs. The stairs had only six steps. Lucas had reached the upstairs when he heard Irina’s question. “Because the ink that would be sent to the Scholar-Dome is different from the ink that we use here to write ordinary book.”

he blurted out and I squinted my eyes at him "Wait a minute, I can't understand your words? then if you don't love reading how did you know the exact words written in her master and his submissive?" I queried, crossing my arms against my check and he scoffed, glancing up at me once more. "I'm author Dark Ink, I wrote the book you are so immensed in reading" he confessed and I covered my mouth in shock. "What! then how come they aren't any pictures of you on the internet?, I checked all social media sites. I can't believe I'm so lucky to have such a talented author in my presence" I squeaked in excitement.

I feel the cold, hard plastic of a pen I stole from the library yesterday. I look around. The hallway is empty. I hike up my skirt. The white silk bunches at my waist. I expose my thigh—pale, smooth skin that Ciro marked with bruises days ago. I uncap the pen. My hand shakes as I press the ballpoint to my flesh. V. The ink is cold. It scratches. I. It hurts, just a little. A pinch. N. I write the letters large, dark, permanent. C. E. R. E.

A crack split the golden band, Ink gushed from it, flooding the soil, dark and brilliant and wild, The void shrieked recoiled not in pain, but in confusion, Because the Hollow Crown was never meant to be broken. It was made to contain, And now? It had released, Liora rose, marked, Ashen's story etched along her spine, burning with every breath And from the ink at her feet, A figure rose. Tall, Shifting, Wearing parts of every story she had ever failed to finish, Eyes like Ashen’s, But older, Too old. And it spoke. “I am the ink between your lines.” “And now… I will write you.”

"You petty, controlling prick." I swiped the message, and a poem scrolled onto the screen in a font that looked like dripping ink: "Where the marble meets the mud, a scholar's light shall turn to blood. A pact is inked in secret sighs, beneath the mask of 'Holy' eyes. One shall fall so One may rise, fed by the Saintess' golden lies. A demon waits within the breath, of the lion who's cheated by a death. Save the spark or join the pyre; the Author's ink is made of fire."

As soon as the pad of my index finger grazed the ink, it was like the ink had a mind of its own. Before I had a chance to react, the ink lept from the page, creating a massive tidal wave that came crashing down over the top of me. Pulling me under into an inky enigmatic world with no air or light. I struggled against the dark current that threatened to hold me under forever, kicking my feet with all my might until I propelled myself upward.

or was he not. • ...and we are many...many too identical... Red ink. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • RED INK EP 32: Where two roads shall meet and pieces begin to form. • • When Hither walked her to the elevator, he stopped and told her, "When you go downstairs, do not speak to anyone that you were at the top floor. No one. Not even to people outside of the hospital work force. Are we in accord?"

Gazing back towards the book, it felt as if something was pushing me towards it. I got up and walked towards the book. Placing it on my lap I noticed that the cover was filled with complicated detailing. The material felt rough, it felt old but well-taken care of. The colors were a mixture of ash grey, gold, and specks of white, the title was written in crimson red. Taking a bite from my food, I opened the first page of the book. ---------- [Chapter Quote: "Her soul belongs to words and books. Every time she reads, she is home ."]

The ink kept rising. It wasn’t fast, not in a cinematic way. There was no dramatic geyser, no instant engulfing. It was worse than that—slow, deliberate, relentless. It had all the time in the world and knew we didn’t. It climbed over the lip of the coffin‑book, thick and glossy, oozing between manuscript pages and pooling under the cracked laptop. Drafts curled as it touched them, ink lines dissolving into formless black paragraphs I’d sweat over turning into sludge.