Black Ink

Joined June 2023

20 stories

Bio

Pen dipped in the ink of darkness, probing the abysses of the human soul...

Stories (20)

Filter by community

Sort by (Optional)

The Last Sip
The night was a scar on the face of the city, deep and sordid, with the wind blowing scents of decay and nothingness. In this open-air sewer, Jean and Pierre lived, two emanations of misery, two ghosts covered in rags, eternally stained by filth. Tramps, vagabonds, ragpickers, whatever you want to call them, they were the forgotten spectres of the city, dehumanized entities in the merciless urban reality.
By Black Ink3 years ago in Fiction
The Needle and the Abyss
The alleyway reeks of sin, shame and filth, Tijuana by night with its garish neon lights casting long, unhealthy shadows. It's here, on the ground, that the man finds himself, a syringe in his hand, the only truth he still knows. The cold pavement chisels at his buttocks, but what does it matter? Nothing matters when the venom runs through his veins.
By Black Ink3 years ago in Horror
The horror of an exchanged existence
Dawn was here, whining like a neglected old bitch, pouring its pallid light over a sleeping world. Jeremy awoke, pulling himself out of the fog of his dreams with the delicacy of a drunk returning at dawn. A heavy veil of uncertainty hung over his mind, a thick mist that blurred the boundary between dream and reality.
By Black Ink3 years ago in Fiction
Last Days of an Ordinary Man
Paris, that rough-skinned old bitch, had, as usual, spread her gray shroud over Louis. And Louis, like a fish out of water, was struggling in this sea of sadness. He was toasting, raising his elbow in an old rade that reeked of lukewarm beer and the sweat of despair, his estaminet of woe. The others, thick brutes, would spit their saucy laughter into the rancid air, laughing at him and his latest bullshit on the job. A grain of sand in the gears, a misplaced comma in the tragi-comedy of life, but for them, it was like a pearl of humor that they chipped away at to the bone.
By Black Ink3 years ago in Fiction
Farewell to Man: The Coming of the Beast
There, in the mirror of the world, stood a man, but not just any man. No, this was not a figure who could be easily forgotten. His face was a dissonant melody, a symphony of scars tearing at his dermis, each stigma telling a story sadder than the last.
By Black Ink3 years ago in Fiction
Laughing out loud
It was an alley in Paris, one of those back alleys where the forgotten, the lost, the ones that society doesn't want to see. It was here that an acrobat performed his act every night. A guy straight out of a book that should never have been written, with a face so scarred by life it looked like an old road map.
By Black Ink3 years ago in Fiction
Shadows of Liberation
Part I : Humiliation 1. Introducing the characters Here we have André, a man as gentle as a lamb, with a heart as big as that, but weak, so weak he'd make a deaf-mute pity him. He looks worn out, poor guy, like an old shoe you've worn too much and didn't dare throw away. He's good, André, as good as bread, but what does he use his goodness for? To get trampled on by his wife, that's all.
By Black Ink3 years ago in Fiction
toothache
In the grand theatre of human despair, A toothache takes the spotlight, in a stunning affair. A villain so small, yet tyranny vast,
By Black Ink3 years ago in Poets
The Damned Carnival
In this godforsaken circus of misery, we dance, we writhe, From the cursed cradle's act to the grave's final sigh. Life's a grotesque freak show, each soul a miserable clown,
By Black Ink3 years ago in Poets
Song of the Scavengers
There he was, lying on the glowing sands of Mali, his lead-pierced carcass soaked in its own juices, like a rag doll left to fend for itself by a temperamental child. All around him, the indifferent scenery, this immensity of ochre and pebbles, roasting under a star that burns your retina as surely as the burning copper that devoured his insides.
By Black Ink3 years ago in Fiction
Waltz of Words, Night of Confessions
With his thirty-one teeth, in violet ink, Nal sets about his hellish task. He's going to write a love letter to the murderer of his mother. It's madness waiting to happen, no doubt. The madness that paces the cobblestone streets of the mind. His mother, the she-wolf who once trampled him like a worm, is no longer there, no longer there... Exterminated, liquidated, and Nal, he's going to thank her, the reaper. We don't want a mother like that in churches or cemeteries, even the graves would have protested.
By Black Ink3 years ago in Fiction
Mexican tragedy
In the raw blackness of a sleepless night, Luis was there, collapsed on the hot Juarez ground, down like a fly on the skin of the world. There was this silver moon up there, just hanging in the sky, like a dead fish eye in its sauce. It was bloodcurdling.
By Black Ink3 years ago in Fiction