Tap, tap. Its head hammered against the opened bound leaves of the unlined pages. Jetstream says the tattoo on its black slender plastic body. It’s dressed in rubber bottoms, stiff against the trembling hands of the unskilled writer at the ready for action. But the writer wasn’t ready. She’d spun her lightweight device so easily around her hands. She stopped. Then the writer continued fidgeting on to its springy head. Click, click. Click, click.

Once upon a time, it was proudly packaged in clear shiny wrapper, against white cardboard. Hanging for dear like on a hook waiting, hoping, to be picked instead of its competitors. So unique with its .38 millimetre point, it could scratch through any paper with delicate lines. Once opened, it awaits for the time it could tell stories, help study, finalize contracts, make symbols. Alas, it would stand still in a jar crammed with its comrades. It continues to wait, unbeknownst to a difficult life ahead of it.

At times it stood still in one’s pocket, watching people shake hands only to witness a beautiful fountain take its position. At times it would stay inside a bag listening as its owner asks someone for another. At times it gets passed on from hand to hand or bit by a curious child. At times it would fall off a surface, unnoticed, replaced, forever.

Nonetheless, it stays at the ready waiting for anyone to use its potential. A story teller’s companion, then it would gladly bleed out its own life so the anxious writer can learn to express.

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash