"The Pen," by Brent Farrell

The pen remembered. It remembered everything. The day it first received ink was almost 30 years ago. Coming to life in Mary Constance’s hand. The feeling of power coming from her hand, vibrating through its platinum casing. The importance of the work it did.

The intimacy they shared. The heartbreak. It relished the diary writing, where Mary poured her soul into and out of the pen.

Sometimes the frustration became so overwhelming or the anger so intense the pen would become air-borne or when a period became an ink spot worth looking at! Exclamation marks were thrilling. The flourishes used flowery, flowing script and proved how beautiful the pen was.

Encased in its platinum sheathing the pen was aware of the world around it. By the nature of the words, and expressions of angst. Joy, humor, and the delicacy of which they were produced.

Rarely were the words pouring out of the pen undecipherable, not matter the mistress’s multi-lingual capabilities. It was emotions the pen could relate to, the core of the word’s meaning felt as real as the Earth that the core of the pen’s platinum originated from. There was no difference!

All human emotion comes form the vibration of the Earth and the rotational pull of that which surrounds it!

The pen knew!

The pen didn’t age as Marty Constance did; it received new life blood every time it was refilled. (As that was a matter of course.) It continued to be an extension of Mary Constance’s conscious and sometimes unconscious self. The pen’s only life came from those who held it. They were the Gods, the puppet masters, the pen their slaves. For whatever was in their mind came out of the pen, no matter the information.

As Mary Constance aged, she grew bolder and stronger in her convictions so the pen felt its own power. As Mary Constance battled age and fatigue the pen was ever sure, if a bit hesitant. The shaky script had no less conviction in its truth. 

Gary Miller1 Comment