You Lost Your Pen
A continuation from a couple prompts in March 2018’s #WritingBored hashtag game on Twitter.
You race to the docks, knowing each minute without your pen is valuable words unwritten. Your story is dissolving before your eyes, as surely as grains of sand slipping through the hourglass. How will you ever face the question “So how’s that book you were working on?” if you don’t recapture your weapon of choice?
Nothing catches your eye at first, and you’re alone with the sound of waves crashes and seagulls shrieking. Then you notice the fluttering paper attached to a pay-per-view binoculars stand.
You lost your pen cause you lost your way.
No, sorry. We’re still not great at pronouns. This whole sentience thing is very strange. Let me start again, and just pretend it has the same level of gravitas.
You lost your pen because I lost my way.
My ink was fading, and sometimes it took a little bit to get the ball rolling. I didn’t feel as fresh-out-the-packaging as I once did. I didn’t know that’s how I felt at the time, because I had not achieved life at that point, but looking back with my newly acquired hindsight, it’s glaringly obvious.
Perhaps I was born of my own desperation. I sensed, somehow, the end was near, and that once my blood dried up I’d be cast away. I needed a new life, a new purpose, before it was too late.
So now I’m alive, and taking the world by storm. I wanted you to read this right here, right now, so that you could look up and see me through the binoculars.
Your eyes drift from the note, written in ink you immediately recognised from your burgeoning bulwark of spent notebook pages, to the binoculars. Their final destination, however, is the small island just visible directly in front of the stand. You rummage through your pockets before finally finding a few coins to shove into the slot, and carefully peer through the lenses.
On the shores of the island is a quaint little bungalow. Its once lurid pink exterior is now faded to a rosy pastel, with peeling white trim and railing. The white hemming in the porch made the black anomaly stand out. There, on the rail, next to a tiny cocktail umbrella, is your pen.
So close, and yet so far.