It wasn’t Jackie Brill’s plan to blow up the planet, but she wasn’t upset about it.
“No risk, no reward” was her writer’s group’s motto, a philosophy that propelled the members to literary stardom. Before Jackie joined, she thought the group was a myth, like the Minotaur or a unicorn. The group had no known name, address, or leader, and its members were secret. Only four things about the group were thought to be true: Everyone who joined turned into a great writer, the group was invitation-only, there were twenty-five members, and only when a member left could a new person join.
The nutty aroma of coffee and the buzz of caffeinated conversation filled the Starbucks on 55th and Third Avenue. Jackie’s coffee had just cooled to a drinkable temperature when a man in his mid-thirties, ten years or so older than she, hovered in front of her table. He wore his black hair crew cut style. Rectangular, black-framed glasses perched on his nose, and through those glasses, Jackie watched his eyes give her the once over. She was about to preempt him with a lie and say, “I’m waiting for a friend,” when an ember of recognition sparked in her head. Before she could connect his face with her memory, he sat.
“I’m constantly surprised that Starbucks thrives in New York City. Isn’t everyone you know a coffee snob? Boutique coffee shops I get, diner coffee I get because diners rock, but regular ‘ole Starbucks?” He shrugged, sipped his coffee, and said, “But here we are.”
Jackie held her breath for several seconds. She flipped through a slideshow of images from newspapers, magazines, and websites in her mind’s eye. “You’re James Horton.”
“That I am.” He bowed from his chair.
“James Horton, who writes best-selling war novels.”
“That’s me.”
“James Horton, who was wounded in Afghanistan.”
“Right again.”
“Oh my God.”
She lowered her voice and repeated, “Oh my God.” Jackie extended her hand, now covered by a thin sheen of perspiration. Their hands met in the middle of the table. “Wow, I’ve read your book.”
“Just one book? Not all of them?”
Jackie felt the warmth of a blush cover her face. She chuckled. “Who has time to read everything they want? I loved Amour of War. You write beautifully. Ordinarily, war novels are not my thing, but when I saw a review of Amour, I had to read it, and I was glad I did. I wish I could write one-tenth as good as you.” Jackie’s face reddened even more, like a setting sun on the horizon’s edge. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. The last person you probably want to talk with is an aspiring writer. We can be annoying, asking for advice and tips, and even worse, an introduction to an agent. Not that I’m asking for tips, your agent’s phone number, or anything at all.” Jackie brought her hand to her mouth. “I need to shut up.”
“I sat here for that exact purpose: to talk with an aspiring writer.”
“Who?”
“You, Jackie Brill.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“May I ask why?” Jackie shivered. She wrapped her hands around her cup for warmth. “How do you even know who I am?” Jackie narrowed her eyes.
“I read your flash fiction in the Bridgton Review.”
“Probably only six people read the Bridgton Review.”
“We’d like you to join our writer’s group.”
“What group is that?”
“The only group that matters, Jackie.”
“Oh wow. Is this the writer’s group I think it is? The group with no name?”
“Before I joined the group, nobody had heard of me or read my self-published novel. And do you know why? Because it was awful, and—”
“I self-published a novel, too.”
“I know. As I said, I was a shit writer, a nobody destined to remain a failure. I cringe when I look at my pre-group work.” James shook his head and released a laugh. “I was a literary dud.”
“Is it true? Can a writer’s group actually turn somebody into a stupendous writer?”
“Not any group, but ours does. We have an opening. Will you be our twenty-fifth member?”
Jackie clasped her hands together so quickly that she bumped the cup, spilling coffee over the side. “I can’t believe this.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Jackie wiped the corners of her eyes with the back of her hands. “What’s the group’s name? When is the next meeting? When will I meet the other members? What happens next? And after next?” With a sheepish grin, she added, “Do you offer health insurance?”
“Our group has no name. What happens next is that you attend our meeting tonight at eleven p.m.” James passed Jackie a folded piece of paper. Here’s the address. See you at eleven.” He slid the chair back.
“Wait, wait! What should I wear?”
“We’re writers. Wear whatever you’re comfortable in.”
Jackie stood at the door, her mouth agape.
George Costa. Lilian Ferris. Alicia Wheeler. Marcy Lopez. Al King. Jackie didn’t have to worry about remembering anyone's name because she already knew them. They were either best-selling authors, staff writers for the New Yorker, or both.
Gwendolyn Pierre shook Jackie’s hand, looped her arm in hers, and guided Jackie to an oversized leather chair beside the fireplace. “Welcome to the most exclusive writer’s group in the world.”
Jackie restrained a gasp. She’d never shaken hands with a Nobel Literature Prize winner before or any Nobel Prize winner.
“Welcome to my home,” James said. “May I offer you a glass of champagne?”
The twenty-four other writers—sitting on various couches, lounge chairs, and floor cushions—already held champagne flutes.
“Yes, please.”
Everyone raised their glass.
“To Jackie Brill, our newest member.”
“To Jackie,” the chorus replied.
If this was what a famous writer’s home looked like, Jackie wanted in. James’ living room comfortably fit two dozen people, something she didn’t think was possible in a Manhattan apartment. Dark wood bookcases lined two walls, and the crackling fireplace filled the room with hushed serenity. Milano glass paperweights placed throughout the room captured and refracted the light, giving the room the ambiance of a distant galaxy. No street sounds, no honking, garbage trucks, car alarms, or sirens penetrated the space.
“I’m delighted you joined us,” James said. “We’ve had an eye on you for a couple of years but had to wait for an opening.”
“Yes, it was sad about Oscar,” Gwendolyn said. “Very sad. But he had a long, successful career, and I’m sure he died without any regrets.”
“Amen,” Ishaan Kahn, one of the group's two young adult fiction writers, said, raising his glass. “To Oscar.”
“To Oscar!”
James handed Jackie a pen. With a broad smile, he said, “This is yours. Write exclusively with this pen, and you’ll be a great writer in no time.”
Jackie uncapped the blue and white marbled fountain pen with a gold nib, scanning it with perplexed eyes. “That’s it? I just write with this pen, and the next thing I know, I’m Stephen King?” She rolled the pen in her fingers. “I don’t understand. How will writing with this pen change anything?” She shook her head as if flinging cobwebs from her ears. “Is the pen haunted or something?”
“Haunted? No, at least not in the usual sense,” James replied. He pulled a bottle of deep blue ink out of his pocket and handed it to her. She weighed the heavy, faceted glass bottle in her palm. Marlow’s Ink was etched onto the bottle’s side. “It’s not the pen that’s important, although we all use the same pen—it’s our insignia. It’s the ink that’s special, that transforms us into who we are. Have you ever written with a fountain pen?”
Jackie shook her head. “I don’t think so."
“Let me show you how to fill your pen. I’ll use mine for demonstration. Just follow along with yours.” James took a second ink bottle from his other jacket pocket and placed it on the table beside Jackie. He unscrewed the cap, which made a slight popping noise. He twisted the back of the pen a dozen or so turns as far as it would go. He uncapped the pen, dipped it into the ink bottle until ink fully coated the nib, and twisted the end cap again until it would turn no more.
James’ pen slurped as it filled.
Jackie mimicked his actions. “That was easy.”
“It is easy. Don’t worry if your pen breaks because the ink is what’s important. You can use any store-bought pen with Marlowe’s ink until we can get you a replacement. As for the ink, when you’re running low, message me anytime, and I mean anytime. If I’m not here, my wife, Lilian, will gladly give you another bottle.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you two were married. But even at two a.m.?
“Writers work odd hours, so when I say anytime, I mean that.” James pointed to the far side of the room. “Sometimes, I think Lilian’s a vampire. She writes at night and sleeps during the day, the opposite of me. I don’t believe she’s seen the sun for decades.”
From across the room, Lilian replied, “Who needs daylight in New York?”
“You probably want to know how the ink works, Jackie.”
“Yes.”
“All of us in this room were born as adequate authors, smack in the middle of the talent scale, stuck on so-so, but this ink transformed us into bestselling and prize-winning writers. To become a great writer, you must take significant risks, which is what our ink does to you. No risk, no reward.”
“Risks?”
James spoke to the room. “I will tell Jackie the rest of the story now, so skedaddle and enjoy your drinks.”
The other writers broke into groups of two, three, and four, leaving James and Jackie alone.
James slid his chair close to Jackie. “Emily Marlowe, the sister of the great poet and playwright, Christopher Marlowe, was an alchemist. She saw the potential for greatness in her brother, but at twenty-three, his writing was still meh. So, in 1587, Emily created this ink for him, the same ink we’re using. Of course, in the fifteen-hundreds, fountain pens were two and a half centuries away from being invented. Marlowe wrote with a quill pen, but the ink worked the same way.”
“What way was that?”
“No risk, no reward. Emily Marlowe invented ink that could—that would—explode every now and then, killing the writer. When it would explode was random, unpredictable. It might explode in a year, two years, or ten. Her ink might explode in the user’s lifetime, or they might continue to write until they die a natural death. She reasoned—correctly, I might add—that the fear that death could strike anytime would transform her brother into a great writer. Christopher needed death’s shadow shrouding him to achieve greatness, and once it did, his writing took off.”
“So, this ink might kill me?”
“It might. But you’ll probably be a best-selling author before your pen explodes, if it ever does. The odds are in your favor.”
“This is incredible. The fear that you might die at any moment is what turned Marlowe—” Jackie waved her arm across the room “—you, and everyone into great writers?”
“Yes.”
“How risky is this ink? What are the chances of any writer dying from an exploding pen?”
“Even after four and a half centuries, we don’t know your chances. A handful of writers were killed during their first year; a couple even died during their first week using the ink. Are you worried?”
“A little.”
“Only a little, Jackie?”
“I’m worried about being killed a lot. But I want to be successful more than I worry about dying.”
“I know you do, Jackie.”
“I have a question. Why haven’t I heard about exploding writers? Surely, that would make the news.”
“We’re rich. Money buys a lot of things, including control of information. And we’re adept at fashioning believable narratives.”
Jackie snapped her fingers. “Christopher Marlowe lived just before Shakespeare. Did William Shakespeare use Marlowe’s ink?”
“Maybe. There’s ambiguity in the historical record, especially in the beginning, but we think so. There’s a painting in the British Museum of Shakespeare holding a quill that appears identical to another we are certain Marlowe wrote with. Same pen, possibly the same ink. Ole’ Will certainly had a liking for the macabre. I wonder where he got that.” James grinned. “Jonathan Swift and Edgar Allen Poe wrote with Marlowe’s ink.”
Jackie’s jaw dropped. “I am so totally in. Thank you for this. The fire that this pen ignites is exactly what I need. I happen to love life, and while I’m nervous and terrified, I know what’s going to happen next.”
“What is that?”
“I'm going to write a great novel.”
Before leaving, James brought Jackie to a small room three doors down the hallway. The only object in that room—encased in a transparent box on a five-foot-high gold, blue, red, and gold anodized titanium pedestal—was an oval glass bottle with a frosted stopper.
“Is that—?”
“Yes, that’s a bottle of the original ink Emily Marlowe created. We haven’t changed the formula in the slightest.”
“Is it dangerous to keep around because the chemical grows unstable over time?”
“The ink is dangerous only when it’s in a pen in motion and warmed by a human hand. Emily Marlowe was a great alchemist.”
Stars of Lilac by Jackie Brill was the National Book Award winner for 2025, as well as a five-week number-one New York Times bestseller. “Sizzling and stupendous,” wrote Maggie Hass. “The next Margaret Atwood,” said the London Times. Jackie’s next novel, a tale of love and loss in pre-colonial Peru, spent six months on the bestseller list.
Every time Jackie put pen to paper, she felt Death’s cold breath on her neck. She wrote alone at home, never in a coffee shop, airplane, library, or public place, lest her pen explode.
The following year, she visited London, where her famous name opened doors that would have stayed closed to others.
She found Emily Marlowe’s papers deep in the stacks of the Imperial College of London’s library, seemingly untouched for more than four hundred years. Jackie read and reread everything Marlowe wrote, falling deeper down an unexplored rabbit hole.
Rabbit hole…Did Lewis Carroll write with this ink, too?
She discovered that Emily Marlowe didn’t invent the ink, but instead refined a formula Jeffrey Chaucer used.
So Marlowe wasn’t the first.
Chaucer's ink was derived from a compound from China 3,000 years before. Jackie wondered if the ink’s history went back even further, perhaps to when primitive humans drew on cave walls.
Through these centuries-old papers, Jackie discovered that Emily Marlowe had fabricated an even more powerful ink. Marlowe penned a skull and crossbones above the formula for that ink, along with the words, “It is my hope no eyes read this page, but if they do, heed my words: Do not make this ink.”
An even more volatile ink could make me one of the greatest, if not the greatest, writer of all time. Jackie snapped a photo of Marlowe’s forbidden formula.
It took Jackie six months to locate all the ingredients to Marlowe’s forbidden ink, which included parts of a beetle from the Brazilian rainforest, an anchovy-like fish from Antarctica, dirt from a Siberian gold mine, and dust scraped off the side of the Pyramid of Giza. Once Jackie finished concocting the super brew, she filled her pen with it. Jackie then got to work on her third novel, which she knew was destined to become the novel of the century.
Fear whirred in her brain. Images of her death filled her, her body lying in the pitch blackness of a wooden box in the frozen ground. She shivered. Her teeth clattered. Every inch of her skin goosebumped, and her heart beat at the speed of light. The ink terrified her, but she created glorious prose.
She wrote nonstop for thirty days, not even slowing when she sipped coffee or snacked on a sandwich. She didn’t sleep or rest, and if she had looked in a mirror, she would have seen that she didn’t blink.
She tapped the final period, setting blue ink on the page, and smiled. Her novel was done.
Thunder rattled her bones. An earthquake jolted her building.
Her pen glowed as bright as a dozen suns; a globe of blinding yellow light filled her office, apartment building, New York City, and the world. The light became fire, searing the atmosphere and spewing ash everywhere. The Earth’s core shook and fractured as if it were made of dry mud.
It wasn’t a bad run, Jackie thought as the planet exploded.
Starting this week, I will be publishing a short story every other week instead of weekly. Look for my stories on the first and third Sunday of every month.
I love writing and storytelling, but a story every week is a challenging pace to sustain. It's not just the writing, developing characters and crafting the plot, but the rewriting, editing, removing the cat from the keyboard, more rewriting, more editing, coaxing the cat off the keyboard again, reading out loud, proofing, and finally formatting everything that makes a story a week a formidable challenge.
This change gives me a better life-work balance, including more time to read Substacks.
It also gives me time to finish two novels. One takes place among Japan's myriad ghosts, and the other novel is a crime thriller. I will be serializing both on Substack.
Thank you for reading my stories.
If you enjoyed this story, I think you’ll also like O. Henry’s Pen.
Bill! Best opening line ever.
Outstanding imagination. Explosive plot line. Brilliant characters. Love it! Every other week sounds just fab!