Eridanus ~ A Collection Of Short Stories

Musings of a Centennial

(Reviewed by WritersBlock1316)

If anyone can be called an avid traveller, it's me.

I'm what you can call an 'old-timer'. I've been around for quite some time, travelling to a number of quaint places, ever since I was first unveiled to the public at that famous pen store.

Your confusion is astoundingly obvious. What? Did you envision a retired middle-aged person walking the streets when I said 'old-timer'? Humans are dense, no doubt.

As I was saying, I first went on display to the public five years ago at a famous pen store, owing to the fact that I happen to be a Parker Black Centennial fountain pen. I remember that day so well! My siblings and I had our own special shelf at the shop. I'm a limited edition, mind you.

That's where I met that man. I don't recall his name, it's not important. I remember he was one of the first customers to show up at the grand unveiling at the store. Naturally, like most people tend to do, he headed straight for me. After uttering a few compliments about my exquisite design, he bought me. And just like that, I became the first Parker Black Centennial fountain pen to be sold from that batch.

I was curious as to what kind of stationary I'd meet at his house. Sarcastic paper? Blunt pencils? The man was apparently an avid writer and had quite a few good specimens in his collection. I had some fun interacting with my cousins, other Parker models. But I soon realised that my owner was, apart from being an extensive writer, a complete idiot.

I knew that very day that he was an enormous moron, when he tried to use an inferior ink on me. I'm a high-class writing instrument, for heaven's sake! It's either Parker ink for me, or no ink at all. I never forgave him for that sin. I refused to work after he filled my cartridge with that cheap ink. I threw a tantrum until he went to purchase a bottle of my own ink. That showed him.

I soon grew accustomed to his ownership, having been in the man's service for three years. Then he decided to bequeath me to his daughter when she had an important examination. The daughter was another strange character. I wasn't particularly fond of the company she kept. I spent some time socialising with her inferior ball pens and markers during the duration she owned me.

She must have thought that using me to write her exam would give her some luck. With her intelligence though, not even stardust could make her lucky. I remember that exam day when she took me out of the pen case and started writing. If a pen could howl, I would have, owing to all the horribly wrong answers she wrote on her sheet. I don't think she passed that exam.

But of course, she had a good taste in fountain pens. After the exam, she took me to her friends to show off a bit. After all, it's not everyday you have the honour of meeting a limited edition Parker Black Centennial fountain pen.

I didn't really like one of her friends though, the one that kept a roller ball pen in her pocket. Nobody who uses a roller ball pen instead of a perfect fountain pen can be trusted.

Alas, tmy new owner displayed her inherited stupidity once again by accidentally dropping me on the grass in the park. She didn't notice when she took her phone out of her pocket, and I only hope she was reprimanded strongly when she got home.

In the breezy park I lay, contemplating all the wonderful showcases I could have been in, if that brat hadn't abandoned me. I watched two squirrels play in the grass, and was getting rather bored of the park with no stationary to socialise with.

It was two days later that I was found, by yet another man who looked as though he had found a treasure when he saw me, glinting in the sunlight. He wasn't wrong about the treasure part.

He was an antiques dealer, you see. He did resemble an antique himself on account of the long, silver beard he sported and those wizened old eyes of his.

I now reside at his house on a display shelf, with a beautiful case just for myself. I get just the treatment an incredible limited edition fountain pen such as myself is entitled to. I sometimes regale the other writing instruments with my tales of old, even though some of the pens aren't worthy of my entertainment. And then I get yelled at by a Waterman ball pen to shut up.

What do those roller ball heads know anyway?