A Drop of Ink
Tear like droplets of rain was hitting the small window of the dark, old, abandoned library. A wooden desk was placed right by the window, where five pens of different colors were gathering on it. All of them were much older than the library and the stocks of books, that the ink in them was dried as smoker’s lips. They were not able to write stories like old times, when they were still new, with fresh ink.
Instead, they were narrating true stories and memories of old times, when their ink’s intense rich color was the cause of the existence of all those narratives. They talked about how their owners bought them from the shop, and what they wrote with them.
The fancy black pen, which seemed unused and still filled with ink, albeit dry, said: “It was my owner’s man who bought me. My owner didn’t have time to even go shop for himself. He was a busy man. I don’t quite remember what I wrote for him, but I was sad because he kept forgetting about where he has put me. Until one day he forgot about me entirely. I was left in the bottom drawer of one of his cabinets, untouched, for many many years. And he never cared actually, since he had a lot of money to a buy a new pen every day.”
Next the green pen spoke: “My owner was a young girl, she used to write love letters to a guy. I always loved the words I wrote for her, because I like romantic stories. Until one day… She made me write the most insulting letter to that same guy she claimed to love. She was cursing him and wishing him death. From that day on, I got confused about this feeling humans called ‘love.’”
“I belonged to a kind hearted child,” the sad blue pen, which had only a bit of dried ink left in it, said “my owner was very hurt at his age, one day he wrote a letter to his father, telling his father of his love for him and how much he’s hurt by his behavior towards him. How he wished that his daddy take care of him like a father has to. Begging him for a bit of affection and his love, needing his hands to run through his hair. Telling his Dad whoever he was now, it was because of him dad, and he should take responsibility for it as a grown up. Unfortunately, my friends, when my little owner brought the letter to his father, the man tore the letter into the tiniest pieces and beat his son so bad, the little one was not able to hold a pen for days”
The red pen remembered a memory as well,” My owner was the vice president. He would hand me to the president anytime there was an execution warrant to be signed. On a cold misty night, when everyone was in their warm beds, dreaming about unicorns, rainbows and a bright future, the president was holding me in his shaking hand, signing an execution warrant for an innocent person.”
The purple pen with sparkly glitter ink had a different story to tell, “Every night my owner with the short pinkish purple hair took her diary out and wrote pages and pages and pages about her lover whom she was so much in love with. The unusual things regarding this girl were plenty. Sadness, misunderstanding, her period, and even her fights with the young man had no negative effects on what she was writing about him. The words she was using were always sweet as honey. Reflecting her extraordinary love for him.” The pen smiled, “Those people are long dead, but their stories remain with us. Whether they’re good or bad, happy or sad. Hence I’m the happiest pen among you my dear friends.”
THE END…
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