Issue 10.2 Spring 2015

10.2 cover image

 

 

Life of a Pen

 

Zac Price
               

 

Every day that I am used is an adventure filled with love and sadness.  Materialistically, I am a mere pen.  Yet to him, my owner, I am life.  I serve as his heart and mind as his inner feelings and thoughts stream onto the paper using my ink.  Every click is like a kiss bestowed upon me in a love bound together like no other.  Although I feel such a romantic and compassionate love as I bring life in-between the lines of the deathly white paper, I come to realization that each letter is one closer to my death.  However, I understand my purpose and I’m proud to be the silent voice of my owner.
               

It was Monday morning when I woke to the bright lights of the high school as my owner opened the door to my home.  I don’t know what it was, but I felt especially good about the day.  My owner grabbed me first thing out of the locker and set me in his pocket, which served as the usual means of transportation throughout my day.  By his anxiousness to grab me, I could tell that the day would be full of his thoughts coming to life through my ink.
               

First hour of the day consisted of minimal writing.  The effort in the way that he moved me was always a clear sign of the interest he had in what he wrote.  If what he wrote wasn’t to his interest, I moved in a rough manner to create letters in print.  However, if his writing was to his interest, I moved in a smooth, swift cursive form to quickly develop all his thoughts on paper.  Second hour was my favorite class in all the writing that he would do.  After not having been used for the entire weekend, I was happy to have my ink used in creating a story during second hour that day.  Third hour was a study hall, so the romantic affairs continued for another forty-eight minutes.
               

In the last hour of the day, I’m swiftly written in cursive and am his silent voice on paper.  Although I wasn’t able to create a story that hour, I was able to analyze poems and brought to life new thoughts and ideas.
               

With every click, my life is shortened.  However, I couldn’t be more proud to serve the purpose that I do.  For some, I am only an instrument to write numbers and words, but for him, I am much more than that; I am life.  I am a translator of tone, mood, imagery, feelings, thoughts, and every rhetorical purpose from the heart and mind of my owner to a silent, powerful voice on paper.  At the end of the day, I was put back in my home.  As I lay in that locker, I realized the difference that I, a mere pen, made and had the potential to make in the world.  I fell asleep that day feeling blessed that I had such a loving owner, and couldn’t wait to change the world the next day one letter at a time.

 

 

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