The Fountain Pen

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Please read my short story The Fountain Pen.

Submitted: June 02, 2013

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Submitted: June 02, 2013

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I sat in my study that had all sorts of books on the wall. There were many books on how to write an essay. I wanted to write an essay. I wanted to write an essay on the psychological benifit of mescaline. I believed mescaline could give you answers to the direction of your life making you more well-adjusted as the years go on as old age sets in. The only problem was that every pen I used made my hand writing messy and I could not finish the project due to the discust I felt when I read over my notes. Regarding the pens, the lines of my writing were to thin, or the writing was blotty, the pen was running out of ink and just made inkless indents in the page or my hand-writing just turned out generally messy.

One day I went into my friend Octaviour Snell's study. It was piled from floor to ceiling in leather bound books and he had a incredable, formidible desk with a green ink blotter and silver ink set made out of hardwood. As I said, the walls decked from, the purple carpet to the ornately plastered cieling molding, were full of lovely leather bound, gold stamped (with the titles and author) on the spines.

Octaviour Snell wore a red tartan bath robe, was well-on in age, and smoked a brown plastic pipe. He was standing, packed his pipe and then sat down to smoke it. I looked at his lovely golden brown beard and felt jealous.

"Dr Snell, I hate to hassle you in this way but I need money for some valarian root and I believe you owe me twenty dollars."

"I remember the loan," Dr Snell said. "I do plan to pay you back this instance. I know how it can be without Valerian root, and to be short of anything I wouldn't wish on any of my friends. And I consider you a friend."

He resumed writing a check for twenty dollars. When he got out his fountain pen I coveted it and was awe-struck and consumed by a need-to-appropriate jealousy instantaneously. The pen was grand. It was made from shined ebony and exquisit inlays of pure gold. He dipped it in the ink daintily and moved the exquisit pen to hover over the check. He wrote. It was amazing to watch. The pen practically glided over the paper, the thickness of the line in what was written was imaculate and the ink did not blot. I felt dizzy with admiration for that pen.

"There," Octavious exclaimed. "Now all that's in order."

I was very pleased with the crisp check in my hand but I still felt a pang of the heart after seeing that masterfully crafted absolutely unsurmounted pen.

I had to walk to the bank and cash my check. I had to cross about seven hundred meters, to get to the bank, through crowds. The sun was out. There was a sperodic breese that rustled the grean leaves. There was the sound of tea cups clinking as they were taken away by waitresses in cafes. I saw a twenty or something youth wearing a exact same colour of red tartan as Octaviour Snells bath robe. I made a wide spiral, left, into the automatic glass sliding doors of the bank. The check bounced. Instantly I thought of stealing that pen in return, for the ill deed and, embarrasment, for giving me a blank check and allowing me to be shamed in the bank for a check that was a dud.

All that night I sat thinking under the glow of tungsten. I drank coffee from my skull and crossbones cup. I became one with the hums of cars outside the window of my study. I heard the clunking of furnature being moved into a house next door and the screaming howl of a cat. I knitted my eye brows and thought about my plan to get that pen. If I got that pen I could write my essay on mescalin. If I got that pen I could proove mescaline makes you become more well adjusted to the rollercoaster of growing old durring life.

I planned to go tonight. I planned to walk the dirt road to Octaviour's place. Noone would see me in the dark. Octaviour would be asleep by now. He enjoys a cocoa before bed and he would sit in his rocker listening to crickets on his porch till he was sleepy. I went to his house that night and stole the fountain pen. My essay drew much critical acclaim. I felt guilty though.


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