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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic


A Story about a Pen

Submitted: October 13, 2017

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Submitted: October 13, 2017

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There she was, the full package. The light of front stage was hard felt yet reflected by her gold; the one previously in front has departed in search of herself. Resisting the urge to simply jump off, she understood from predecessors that this emotion must be contained and focus must all be directed to making herself available. Making herself available, something that didn’t require much of her effort. The bright pink body shaded in translucent white alone was enough to turn heads, but there’s more to her. A body capped with a white upper complemented with golden trimming and the Pelican tattooed at her helm, waiting to take off. Initially you’d think there was only one of her type, only to realise that there’s a queue of duplicates behind her, each closer to the verge of finding herself than the next. She’s fragile like the rest, famines for satisfaction but would never demand it. She longed for unique love, but didn't count on it. She wants more, would settle for equal and be content with less. Her bottom part, a minute version of the upper, but elegant in its own right. It would take pedant or a penophile to truly recognize, appreciate and treasure her, as to them she’s the Special Edition Pelican Souveran M600 Fountain Pen. There aren’t a lot of them around here. Both.

The wait maybe a lengthy one, but she knew that. She clung on the idea that fate had something in store for her, something good. Knowing she wouldn’t and shouldn’t be making any decisions, and understanding that her type was always favoured by fortune. With nothing to worry about, she had to simply ride the wave, and receive cooperatively the gifts fate will shower down.

Every day she occupied herself with fantasies of finding her pleasurable ever after, the place where she will be embedded within the everlasting sensation of freedom, and get away from being homogeneous to being valued and cherished every second. Ultimately find, dare she think it, her ‘True Hand’.

In the midst of another fabrication of optimistic surrealism, reality swooped her away. It had started, the beginning of her unique life. Her thrill ought to be supplemental, but recent fantasies diminished that possibility. Instead, occupied by the spongy feel of this pink water-bed, wondering if this was it, knowing that it was a hand, hoping it’s a large hand. The five pillars came down on her, they carried and eventually put her in a box. The box, the point at which all the anecdotes stop, the point at which you entered the “unknown”, until that point everything heard was true, and with accuracy; the exchanging of hands, the beep and the box.

The hours spent in the box, should’ve felt like minutes, but seemed like days. Eventually it was opened, it felt like front stage again. The same hand took her out the box and handed her to another, this one felt different, rougher, she tried to convince herself that it was bigger but wasn’t sure. This one more active, moist and possibly bigger. Hysterically shaken and almost dropped at one point, all the while curiosity occupied her during the pandemonium.

He settled, opened her cap and studied her bristle for a few seconds the closed it. He held her cap lightly with three pillars and raised her. She was twisted in the air for the greatest few seconds of her short story. While being lifted, an impulsively induced and meaningful sensation embraced her, it was beyond any fabrications of surrealism she’d had before, realising that this was it, not understanding why but being certain that for those few majestic moments she felt ‘it’, sure of it being courtesy of this hand that fate gifted her.

That night, almost entirely occupied by the sensation she experienced earlier, longing for more. But unable to live down the rapid escalation of the events, questioning if others found theirs so quickly. Knowing fate favoured her, it made sense. She’d found her true hand, whom came in that night.

The room dimmed, and further soothed by the saxophone influenced music playing, swing, she wouldn’t know that, neither would she the names of the men behind the atmosphere, from Jerome Kern to Duke Ellington.

The double bed ever-present, a canvas of a world map dominated the space above the bed. A cupboard half-filled with uniform suits and trousers, alongside slightly varying colour shirts, dull, in comparison to the eclectic range of flamboyant, colourful and madly thought-out garments occupying the other half. The rest of the room was organized unequally by the conflicting themes.

He grabs and hastily exposes her, she’s anxious, but he wastes no time. He’s quick, scarcely paying attention to his words, seemingly he’s done this before. She didn’t echo his experience and consistency, for her it was gratifying and with no similar experience to compare its everything she wanted, a feeling of complete matchlessness, this intimate moment was just for her. He used her sufficiently, she covered many sheets within a few hours due to his skill, all the while she’s being ever grateful for these moments and counting the blessings that fate had provided.

Similar nights were to come; gradually narrow satisfactions were all she had to be thankful for, her excitement stagnant and feelings fading. Adding to her growing detachment, the sense of uniqueness had diminished due to his use of others whom matched her to him. Initial envy landing to be non-existent; knowledge of fellow feeling rapidly impelled the envy to apathy.

Greater parts of days were spent manoeuvring the multiple gratifying nights she’d experienced to land on those treasured seconds she felt that great sensation. Her gut the only part remaining realistic, reminding her that none of nights come close to the feelings of that moment, and how it most certainly won’t happen again. Each day settlement with her gut feelings leave her dejected. One morning she was carried elsewhere by him much to her unconcern.

Placed in a cup with others, although physically different she felt back at square one. This room was different, a lot larger, scattered with identical chairs on wheels. Chairs that were often occupied by others, whom followed his orders. Spending many days in that room, without his presence. Her thoughts slowly contaminated by regret, which she tried to vaccinate with assurance about that now mythical favouritism. Regret prevailed.

One morning, during the settlement he perpetuates after the chaos, he picked her up from amongst the budding cup and handed her to a person on the chairs, leaving feeling of betrayed much to her surprise. That person handed her to another, and this carried as these moments of chaos got worse, all these different hands abusing and discarding her. Treacherous pain oozed her body during the violating. Helplessly hoping for this nightmare to end.

All through-out, an internal dilemma struggled to reach a conclusion, questions regarding everything she was told and followed until now; fate, fortune, reality and her status amongst them. Both battles reach the climax. Not being able to bear any further, she decided for the first time to go against everything she believed in, and take action.

The chaos continued, one hand decided to put her on the next table attached to the chair for another hand to pick up, in that moment all her power and strengths was allocated to moving, defying and altering her path. Not anticipating what would happen, if anything. She kept trying and through sheer power of will felt her self-rolling, riding the wave of self-control straight into the unknown.

The next night, she was taken out a bag in resurrection. Leaving behind past experiences, future suspicions and taking control of her own fate. The hand was positively large, but that fairy-tale didn’t matter. The single bed and small table filled the room, with the floor simultaneously acting as the wardrobe and competitors competing for space on the walls.

He uncovered her, spending minutes taking in and carefully caressing her bristle before setting her down and preparing the sheets. Further studying and appreciating her appearance, he was anxious but eager to begin. He was slow and cautious, hesitantly pouring his heart out as his emotions lay bare, cherishingly choosing his words as each one meant too much to waste on her, valuing every spill of Ink. She, in a state of ecstasy unable to gather any thoughts, she was right there with him, the recipient of overwhelming passion and constant surges of sentiment from a pleasingly precarious pedant.

The nights he used her were rare, but the newly content person she’d become is not in a hurry and has discarded all perquisite expectations, choosing to accept that he won’t shower her, but aware of her newly found audacity to decline fate’s leadings. Besides when he did pluck up the courage to use her, he gave it his everything, which was all she could ask for.

But as satisfied and comfortable as she was with her renovated self and mind, there was one thing she couldn’t completely live down.

There came a period where he was absent for longer than usual, she grew impatient. Instead of tolerant. Out of nowhere, he belligerently picked her up in broad day light, which was unprecedented. Without his typical foreplay he held her painfully tight, unhesitant and straightforward with his words. His words darker than ever. This seemed like a different person, a person in pain and anguish. All the black grief channelled through her.

In refusal, another choice was in order. She decided to stop complying and not flow for him any longer. She’d done it before, although unwillingly out of exhaustion, and he would stroke her bristle with his tongue which aroused her enough to co-operate for longer. This time she wouldn’t co-operate. Stopping and refusing to carry on, he licked her irritably in a few attempts but she was in control of herself.

Enraged, he gave up. Tears in his eyes he repeatedly pounded her against the table, while screaming in anguish on her behalf. She duked it, and kept imagining the saxophone. By contrast feeling true to herself and happy with her incompleteness. Questions about hypothetical events had she not defied fate were outshone by curiosity about those majestic moments still remaining incomparable.

His turbulence climaxing, he opted for a sensational finish; One last dash onto the table to scatter the remaining of her precious parts, which were instantly hidden in amongst the room. He opened his window, twisted to the side, raised his knee and flung with all his might.

Finally complete. It made sense, the pelican had spread its wings. Her mind as clear as the wind blowing her ink away, perfectly balanced by nostalgia. This is joy, this is freedom, this is sovereignty. She belonged where she was and is, and will belong where she’s going. By the sax she roamed into golden flight.


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