Chatterbox: Inkwell

The post office’s rosewood door was carefully unlocked and pushed open, revealing a healthy young man with diamond blue eyes and skin the color of hot chocolate powder. He walked over to a patched-up leather couch and placed a sizable ebony briefcase on it. Afterward, he strutted over to the post office’s counter, a gloved hand ringing the silver bell. In a flash, a young girl with a messy ginger ponytail rushed out of the backroom, flinging herself on the polished counter.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” The young man smiled, “How are y- ”

“No, wait!” The ginger girl barged in, making the young man jump, “Let me guess! You’…” The girl stared at him, her blue eyes wide open and her brow furrowed. “That’s odd,” she pondered aloud, “I can’t seem to remember your name…”

The young man lightly tittered. “Well, you see, I don’-”

“I’ve GOT IT!” The ginger screeched abruptly, “Come to think of it, I haven’t ever seen you around here before, not even on a poster!” She leaned on the desk, mischievously beaming at the startled man. “You aren’t from around here, are you?” The man chuckled nervously.

“Well, yes, I-”

“I KNEW IT! Pop strikes ONCE MOR-”


The girl, Pop, immediately obeyed.

“Sorry for the outburst, madam,” The man apologized, then collected himself. “As you have wisely deduced, I do indeed not live around here. I am a cartographer, so I travel quite frequently, and never stay long enough for any to remember my name. Anyhow, I would like to know the address of a certain woman, a Ms-”

Pop immediately popped up, proclaiming with a grin, “Oh, of course! Hold on for just a moment, I’ll go check the boxes!” Before he could oppose, she dashed into the back room, from which a ruckus soon erupted. The young man saw a pale hand pushing a rolling stepladder and grimaced at the sight of two slim legs climbing it. The stepladder zoomed across, creaking and whooshing in a way that somehow portrayed the entire concept of clumsiness.

“Alright, Mr. Gloves,” Pop blared as the hazard with wheels slid across the floor, making the sound of what he could only assume was boxes and papers flying across the room, “What’s the lady’s name?”

“Mallory Penmight!” The young man yelled as the grinds and groans grew more boisterous, shaking harder than a vase in an earthquake.


“Mallory Penmight!” Something collapsed, and the gentleman knew it wasn’t something insignificant.

“Kinda hard to hear you when you’re so quiet, your highness! Bit louder, please?!”

“ Mallory Pen- could you PLEASE GET DOWN FROM THERE?!”

To his indescribable delight, all ladder screeched to a halt, and Pop skipped down the steps. As she trotted into vision, the young man heaved for breath, a gloved hand upon his heart.

“Oh my gourd,” He gasped, “It somehow almost had a heart attack just watching you.”

“Sorry, sir,” She leaned on the counter, a sly grin stretching across her plump cheeks, “It would have been a lot easier if you weren’t so hushy-wushy. Listen, just tell me the name. Write it down on a slip of paper or something! Makes it a lot easier if you insist on saving your voi-”

“Mallory. Penmight.”

Pop’s right eyebrow raised her smile closing and straightening.

“Mallory. Penmight. Mallory. Freaking. Penmight.” The young man glared at her, “Get the name in your mind. It’s hard enough for you to have the slightest concern about your safety with both hands; I don’t need you holding something too. I’ll even go to the town hall if I have to. Just please, please have some regard for your own safety.” 

“Mallory Penmight,” The ginger repeated, holding her chin, “Mallory Penmight. Mallory Penmi-” Suddenly, her eyes widened, pupils dilating. Her forehead creased more than a failed origami piece, and the energy drained from. She bit her thumbnail, eyes darting all over the room. Haltingly, her head lifted to even ground with the young man, whose name she hoped she didn’t already know.


Yup, that's right, Ella Starburst, the bubbly leader of Floof Industries who messes around 24/7 actually WRITES! This story isn't over, by the by. I'll post part two in the comments to lessen the work of the admins. Anyway, if you're reading this, I would like you to post constructive critisisim in the comments, because Grammarly premium is way too expensive. If this seems rushed, it's because I'm in class and need to speed. Thank ya'll for understanding, and buh-bye! 

submitted by Ella Starburst, Forever Imagining
(September 23, 2019 - 9:16 am)

“Mallory Penmight, huh,” she spoke, treading carefully and costively, “Owner of Penmight estates Penmight? Esteemed writer Penmight? The mortal enemy of Matthew Swormight Penmight?”

The young man hesitated, then nodded his head. “Yes, that Penmight.”

“I see.” Pop’s arms slumped to her sides, her hands meeting to fumble with one another. “ must be Tristan, correct? Tristan D. Countis?”

“...Correct.” Tristan’s expression softened at Pop’s sudden mood change, and he relaxed his stance. “My lady, Is there something wro-”

“I can’t give you an address,” she cut him off hesitantly, her sullen pupils meeting his, “But what I can give you is so much more. Wait here."

Without another word, Pop turned and sprinted into the very end of the back room. In a few moments, she toddled back in, cautiously setting a woven handbag on the table. The handbag was scribbled all over with colorful markers and had a bronze clasp connecting the two sides of the bag. Tristan's eyes enlarged at its sight. His mouth slightly opened, trained on the bag.

“She…” Pop bit her lip, searching for what to say, “...Some townsfolk found this, at the old Penmight Estates. I don’t know how to tell you this, but… Mallory Penmight is no more. About five years ago, the place burned down, and all the workers with it. The town police reported it an arson, done by Penmight herself. The hour before the event, Penmight delivered this to the office, saying to save it for a man called Tristan D. Countis. This Penmight’s last will. And it belongs to you.”

The young man’s face lost all color and emotion. Tristan twitched in syncopated patterns, his eyes fleeting to Pops, and back to the bag, searching for answers to questions that he couldn’t describe. His eyes blinked long and hard with little intervals, for the dams of discipline that he had taken so long to build were slowly cracking. shuffling her feet, Pop prepared her next sentence, one that she hoped would cool the burns.

“If you want,” she cautiously offered, “You don’t have to open it now. I know it must be hard to hear this news so suddenly, but-”

“You’re lying.”

Pop looked up at Tristan. He was intensely shaking, his fists were balled up, and the dams holding back his tearful floods were cracking. She dare not say a word, for fear of destroying the dangerously fragile butler.

“You’re lying, “ he lifted his head, a sparkle of sincerity and crestfallen in his irises, “you have to be. There is no way-no way in the starry heavens that she would ever, ever do such a thing. She had a great life, she was happy, she was successful, she had everything that most of humanity can only wish for. She would-will never do something like that, it just isn’t her!” As he spoke, his voice gradually got louder and more cracked, and he finished his declaration with a loud slam on the desk. Pop sighed deeply, pity drowning her features. 

“I’m sorry sir,” She apologized sincerely, “It’s true. I do wish it wasn’t, but it is. I saw her corpse in the debris.” She resisted the temptation to smack her forehead, scolding herself harder than ever. Tristan, looking into Pop’s eyes with a.

“You’re lying!” He pounded the table, “The cor-body…” as he shuddered at the words, a single tear escaped, “It-it must have been fake! You don’t know Mallory as well as I do, you never will! This isn’t happening, this can’t be happening, there must have been something wrong, you can’t be telling the truth, you don’t know anything, you must…” He sniffled and wiped his face, shaking more intensely than ever. “ must…” He crumpled onto the countertop, tears pouring down his cheeks. Pop sighed deeply, pity lacing her every breath, and held two hands to her heart. 

Dear Lord, she pleaded, help this poor, lost soul come to your heavenly embrace and find solid ground. Amen.

With that, she exited into the back room.

submitted by Ella Starburst, Forever Imagining
(September 23, 2019 - 12:03 pm)
submitted by Bop to the TOP!!, Forever Imagining
(September 23, 2019 - 12:03 pm)
submitted by top
(September 23, 2019 - 1:51 pm)

Aha, so that's what your "writing help" thread was for! It all makes sense now!

I sincerely doubt that you mess around 24/7. I mean, if you did, you wouldn't have time to write this! I think it's amazing, by the way. One suggestion I have would be to maybe increase the variety of sentence lengths. It's already pretty good in that department, but hey, a little more variation can't hurt, right?

I can't wait to see what happens next! 

submitted by Summer, age pi, Nowhere at all
(September 23, 2019 - 7:14 pm)

Thank you so much Summer! I honestely didn't expect anyone to want more, but I have TONS of ideas, so just you wait!


submitted by Ella Starburst, Forever Imagining
(September 24, 2019 - 8:34 am)

I'm really enjoying this! Super good. I like your descriptions, and the mysterious way you wrote about Tristen. :D

submitted by Tuxedo Kitten
(September 29, 2019 - 4:48 pm)
submitted by Bop to the TOP!!
(October 7, 2019 - 6:22 pm)


submitted by Ella Starburst, Bop to the TOP!!!
(October 8, 2019 - 11:26 am)