Hello there, you bonkers little human. I see that you have reached the end of your voyage. Please confirm the pass code before continuing to the land of magic and mystery.
What?! You don't remember it?! How can someone forget something so predictabl...
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I roll across the table, head pounding against heaps of books as I come to a halt. Even though I scream, my master can't hear me. Either all humans are deaf to whatever speech we pens slur, or my human is just particularly dumb. And occasionally abusive.
"False!" my other folks call out. "Eternally abusive!"
I roll my eyes. "What will you know?" I scoff at them. They are still a pile of unwanted morons bound within plastic wrappings – their ink will soon be clotting like forbidden blood. And here I am, liberated. Chosen. Master ripped open my suffocating casing a month ago, and walked me to where I belong – to paper. In this overly competitive world of Matador, Olympics and what not, she picked me.
To be honest, I adore this human. She writes beautifully – passionately. Her fingers are articulate –skilled. She maneuvers me across pristine paper, every scribble sewn together to forge into magic. Like a river, she keeps me flowing. In the cozy warmth and sweat of her familiar palms, I feel engulfed with love. She gives me meaning and I give her zeal. Together, we are omnipotent.
Yet, today, her eyes are sunken as she stares at a blank piece of paper. With crippling frustration, she scrunches it, hurling it at the far wall. The paper ball bounces back, slapping her forehead. I should feel bad for her but I end up cackling. Sometimes, she is just too entertaining to watch and not laugh at. Or maybe I am just evil. I mean, I am the wand she uses to cast the spell of death on her best characters.
Grunting like a boar, she violently shakes her head, and her hair whips against me. My dear Lord, what kind of coarse wire is she carrying around on her head? She is more of a porcupine than a human.
As she hurtles out of the room, looking much like a scared two-year-old, my mouth waters. I know what's next – coffee.
Hot steam soars up, clouding her thick-brimmed glasses as she trudges back into our cluttered room. The smell is intoxicating. I wonder how it tastes. As she savors each drop trickling down into her mouth like a muddied waterfall, I try to roll back. Just one drop, human, please. Of course, I can't get to her. I am practically powerless without her.
In an evanescing second, her eyes glow up like Christmas lights, and she pounds her cup against the burgundy wood of our table. She has got an idea! Yes! Oh no no, she accidentally spilled her coffee!
Hot liquid sears my skin, and I hiss out in pain. She doesn't notice me though – too busy waving her stained paper in front of a fan.
"Woman, I am here too!" I scream. Before remembering that my human is just a particularly dumb nut.
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If you haven't figured out already (in which case, you too are a particularly dumb nut), this is writer's block from a pen's point of view. Good job me for finally writing something light-hearted! XD
