The Pen

The pen is a prophet. It is a young child, full of opportunity, and only needs the gentle help of a guided hand. It is gripped lightly between the tips of fingers, cradled by the teardrop structure created by thumb and forefinger. The thick, black venom waits slyly within the lengthy tube, ready to write, ready to supply. Beginning with a slight dip of the hand, the pen starts to walk its destined path.

It sways about the blank tablet, holding the author's thoughts and mind within itself. Then, as if awoken by the mere power of idea, it unleashes its intellectual prowess, opening up to the quiet world and giving elaborate sparks of poetic intelligence. The heavy, black ink cuts into the pulpy material, embedding itself within the vibrant flesh of the strengthened canvas. The pen's long, slender body moves with it, dazed in a trance by the intricate dance of imagination. Dizzy loops of well-recognized cursive cross the page swiftly, with ease.

The heart of the story commences, and the profound ideas start to declare themselves. Lost in thought and mental fury, the author has no time for a break. The pen is moved faster along the pages, like a cheetah gaining speed on unwary and unsuspecting prey. Finally it strikes, with a surprise that would have never been guessed. Completely new schemes come into play, and the author grins at his story with satisfaction. The main plot has come out, but the ending is only a guess.

Unlike the close relative, the pencil, the pen does not have the ability to erase, leaving it impossible to forget any memories or stories told. Serving its owner with utmost compassion, the pen goes on without complaint. The author's elaborate designs are hurriedly scrawled, the words are messily scribed, but they show graffiti-like significance. The ideas come in waves, and it is a competitive race to get them all down on the page. When the flood of memories stop appearing, the pen is cast aside, a slave, only good for its purpose and never rewarded.

As the story nears completion, particularly careless scrawls follow. The writer is clammy with perspiration, but aware that the job is close to a finish. Page by page, the last bits of creation are recorded, whether a dramatic finale, or a nail biting cliffhanger. The pen is pinched and squeezed due to the extreme effects of adrenaline, but it continues on without a choice. Then - with a last exasperated jab, a period marks the end. The draft is complete. Untidy but legible, the chronicles are there and the next step awaits them. When the story is published, it will be printed on paper by machinery, and the draft will eventually be crumpled into an insignificant ball of no concern. The tiring work was for good use, but seemingly for nothing. The pen awaits again for the next job, a never ending work force with terrible benefits. And why, after being nothing more but a dedicated secretary, after giving you its all, is it punished by a frustrated shake when it runs out of ink?