'The Magic Pen'
by André Ferero
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © André Ferero 2010
Smashwords Edition, License Notes:
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'The Magic Pen'
I was confronted with an empty computer screen. My mind was filled with hundreds of ideas for possible stories. Numerous nameless characters floated in and out of my imagination like wraiths. But my biggest companion was fear. Fear of failing to write all those beautiful stories which I carried around inside my head in exactly the way I wanted to.
So there I sat. I stared at the screen. It stared back at me. The only sign it gave that it was alive was the cursor blinking relentlessly in the upper left corner. On-off, on-off, never-ending. I wished that the screen could be magically filled with words - beautiful, true words and phrases of exquisite prose - but nothing happened, my wish wasn't granted.
I formatted the document in double spacing with only the left side aligned. I clicked on the 'Centered' icon and typed the name of the story. 'The Magic Pen', I wrote. I clicked enter and wrote 'by'. After that I wrote my name. At least the story had a title, but the rest of the page was still blank. I typed the first word but deleted it immediately again.
I sat motionless. My fingers hovered over the keyboard like a hungry hawk eyeing its prey but I didn't know what to write. I looked out the window. Outside the olive tree in the garden moved gently in the September breeze. At least it wasn't the infamous Mistral that usually blew in Provence in September.
I looked at the time on the computer screen. It was 9 a.m. Another hour of writing time remained before I had to leave for the Avignon TGV station to pick up my friends who were arriving from Paris. I thought of them and suppressed the excitement I felt of seeing them again. It had been almost two years since our previous visit, since I had left South Africa and moved to France.
I stared at the white screen again. What did I really want to do with this story? I asked myself. Subconsciously I knew, but why was it so difficult to express that knowledge, that essence of the story in words? Why couldn't I just see the whole thing - the characters, the situation, the setting, the plot and the interaction of all these elements? Why didn't the story show itself to me and allow me to write it and share it with the rest of the world? Why was it hiding from me, especially when I knew it was somewhere within me?
I felt the breath of the story, felt the excitement of a new beginning within my chest. But why did fear overpower that feeling of exhilaration? What was I really afraid of anyway? Of failing to write the story in exactly the way I wanted to, of not being able to finish the story or of not even being able to start it? Was it doomed to remain an idea inside my head forever? What was wrong with me for not being able to give life to this story? Or did I simply have to give it more time to develop before I would find a way of writing it down?
I looked away from the computer again. A few birds sat in the tree outside, chirping merrily, unaware of my dilemma, my crisis with words. I wanted to join them. I longed to fly with them and see the world from above. I desired their freedom, their carefree life of flight.
I got up from my chair and walked to the kitchen. I made myself a coffee and stood at the window while I drank it. Upon finishing the cup I returned to my office. The computer was still there. The screen was still desolate. Words were still unwilling to populate it and give it a fictitious life.
I needed to write the first sentence, even the first paragraph before leaving. I knew that I would never be able to find a way of entering the world of the story if I failed to do that. I was aware that the beginning was very important, not only for the reader, but also for the writer. Once the first sentence was written the first paragraph followed and once that was done entrance into the story was allowed.
'During the night he dreamt of the pen again,' I wrote.
No, that wasn't good enough, I thought. Dreams in fiction have become too common, it's little more than a cliche. Stay away from dreams, too many writers use dream sequences. I deleted the sentence.
'John looked for his special pen in the drawer where he always stored it. He never put it anywhere else and was perplexed that he couldn't find it. Where could it have disappeared to? Did somebody remove it on purpose, or did he misplace it by mistake?' I wrote.
Apart from the name of the character, the rest of the paragraph was acceptable. The name could always be changed later. I knew that many names of my characters had been changed often before.
'He frantically searched through the stationery that littered the drawer. It was in his way. John grabbed it and threw it on the desk. He picked through the few items that remained behind like a starving shipwrecked sailor looking for food. There was nothing. The pen was lost. It was impossible. He had left it there the previous day. Who could have taken it? And how was he ever going to work again without his favorite pen?'
I looked at the watch. It was time to leave. I wasn't completely satisfied with the two short paragraphs which I had written, but I told myself that it was a beginning and that I was at least not leaving an empty page behind. When I returned to continue writing the story I could decide if I wanted to keep it or start from the beginning again.
I packed a few drinks in a cooler box and headed to my car. When I reached the traffic lights I decided to take the old, more scenic road to Avignon. It was early enough and there was no need to take the toll road. The light turned green and I turned left. From Senas to Orgon I drove for the most part in the shade of the huge plain trees that line the road. I've always loved that part of the road, especially in summer when the lush leaves not only provide beauty but also a welcome coolness.
I turned the radio on and changed the station from France Blue Provence to Virgin Radio. Heavy Cross by Gossip was playing. When it stopped, some advertisements began. I switched the radio off.
After passing through Orgon I drove north. Some of the fruit stands next to the road were still open. Soon they would close for winter and only re-open next summer. Even though school had started again after the end of the long summer holidays, there were still some tourists around, mainly retired couples from Italy, Germany, Belgium and The Netherlands. Most of them wanted to soak up as much of the southern sun before returning to the north where autumn always arrived early.
I looked at the trees while I drove. The further north I went, the less green the leaves became. With the warmth of the late summer sun still present it was difficult to believe that autumn and winter would arrive soon. I shuddered just thinking about the cold and the darkness. My African blood wasn't made for European winters and I wondered if I would be able to struggle through another one.
Thoughts of 'The Magic Pen' also returned to me while I drove. What did I really want to do with this story? All I really knew was that one of the characters was a pen - a pen filled with magic ink. The pen is given to a writer and helps him to write beautiful stories.
Apart from the pen and a few possible characters and scenes I didn't know much about the story. The beginning and the end was already revealed to me, but the middle part of the story still remained a mystery.
It was frustrating to have an idea but not know what to do with it. I knew I had to give the story structure and decided to take a piece of blank paper during my next writing session and draw a diagram to help me to find a clear direction for the story. In the meantime I would forget about it and allow it to simmer in my subconsciousness, to develop on its own, away from my conscious, rational mind.
I reached the outskirts of Avignon, drove past the commercial area and the low cost apartment buildings before turning left on the road that led to the TGV station. I drove for several minutes. At the sign for the TGV station I turned off. I followed the traffic circle and exited it on the left.
In front of me, still a kilometer or so away, the station building gleamed in the morning sun. I drove towards it, constantly looking for a parking space. I found one and parked. I climbed out, locked the car and walked towards the station building. Many other people moved in the same direction, some with luggage, others without.
It was difficult to believe that I would see my friends soon. I felt as happy as a small boy receiving his first puppy. I was overjoyed and just by thinking about the visit I felt connected to something familiar.
Since I started living in France my loved ones in South Africa seemed very far away, not only in distance, but also emotionally. They seemed to be completely removed from my new life abroad. I heard very little or nothing from them and often felt isolated and forgotten here. But now, within twenty minutes I would see some people who I had known for years. They would bring me news of my country, of all the people and places I had left behind.
I looked up at the azure sky. It was cloudless, painted with that unique radiant color I had never seen anywhere else. The sun was bright and shone with a promise of warmth. If only the wind could remain calm the weekend weather would be perfect.
It was my friends' first visit to Provence and I knew they would love it. All our other visitors always did. I understood why people liked Provence so quickly and easily. It was different from back home, so much older, always infused with an ethereal light. That strange light somehow settled on everything and provided it with a layer of something unreal, something magical and mysterious.
Since I started living here I had a constant feeling of always being one step away from reality. At the beginning I found it difficult, as if my life, the real one I had lived before, had been taken away from me and replaced by some imaginary life, something not really concrete. I didn't always feel real, sometimes I felt invisible and light, so light that I feared I would float away.
Once I accepted that feeling and anchored myself in that new reality I found my place in that unfamiliar world of make-believe. I wondered if my friends would also feel some aspects of that unreal world, or if their visit would be too short to allow them to really be influenced by Provence. Will they be able to see the hidden beauty behind the facades of the ancient buildings, the history in the lined faces of the old French people, the invisible life behind the colors and noise of the markets and the inviting smells of the restaurants and street cafes?
At the entrance to the station I waited for a group of tourists to exit. They laughed like children, already entranced by their visit to the South. I entered the station once they had filed past me and left the remains of summer outside. I was unable to deny that summer was reluctantly exchanging its green colors for the rusty shades of autumn. Autumn was still acceptable, but winter with its stark wet coldness and grey dark days was a torture I would never get used to.
I walked to the information screens in the arrivals hall. The train was on time. The clock on the screen showed that it was 9:59. It changed to 10:00 while I watched it. Another twenty minutes of waiting. I sat down on a bench and watched the people coming and going.
A train arrived and a new wave of people engulfed everything. They flowed through the station and out of the doors into the welcoming day waiting outside. Some passengers stopped to look at their watches. Others spoke on their mobile phones. A few lucky ones greeted loved ones with hugs and kisses, elated to be reunited.
After all the others had left, a short man walked unhurried down the walkway from Platform A. He was alone. In his left hand he carried a black briefcase. His brown hair was neatly combed. He looked at something he held in his right hand. It was difficult to see what it was.
The stranger was dressed in a dark suit. Underneath the jacket he wore a white shirt and a maroon tie. He continued to look at the thing in his hand through his thick glasses, struggling to focus. I wanted to get up and offer him my help, but hesitated. He looked fragile and lost and it seemed as if he could really do with help from somebody.
The odd man nearly bumped into someone else and he decided to stop walking. He stood a few feet away from me. Our eyes met briefly and I thought I saw a smile on his thin lips. He looked at the thing in his hand again. It was a notebook. He put his briefcase down next to him and removed a pen from the pocket inside his jacket. He scribbled briefly in his small black book before replacing the pen. The man picked up his briefcase and walked off.
I watched him leave, wondering who he was. I looked back at the place where he had stood only seconds before and immediately saw his pen lying on the floor. It must have fallen out of his pocket. I wanted to give it back to him and picked it up. I turned around but he was no longer visible. He had disappeared. I ran out of the station but he wasn't outside either. I went back into the building and headed for the toilets. I waited outside for a while but he didn't appear again. I returned to my seat on the bench, grasping the pen.
I sat down and looked at the black pen in my hand. It was beautiful. The weight and balance was perfect. I took the cap off. It was a gold tipped fountain pen. The tip gleamed in the dim station lights. I closed it again but kept it in my hands. It felt warm.
While I still inspected the pen a young woman stopped in front of me. I looked up and saw her friendly face looking down at me. She also looked at the pen for a while before she spoke.
'May I borrow your pen? I can't find mine and I have to write something down,' she said in French.
'Yes, of course,' I said.
She took the pen, removed a small notebook from her handbag and wrote something in it.
'It's a beautiful pen,' she said when she handed it back to me. 'It glides over the paper as if it's flying. I love fountain pens, have always loved that smell of ink. It reminds me of my dad. He was a writer,' she said and lifted her notebook closer to her nose. She breathed deeply. 'Thanks for the memory. Have a nice day.'
'No problem. You too.'
She melted into the ever-changing crowd and became part of the shifting colors.
I looked up at the clock again. It was only 10:01. I was perplexed. Did only one minute pass since the man who had lost the pen stopped next to me? How was it possible? It felt much longer than that. I didn't look at the pen again before I put it in the pocket of my shirt. I needed some fresh air, got up and walked to Platform B.
My friends arrived on time. We didn't even try to hide our happiness when we saw each other. We spoke about so many things simultaneously that we ended up laughing at our own excitement.
'Let's go to our place. We can talk over lunch and a few drinks,' I said.
On the way back to our house they told me about their time in Paris. They had loved it. It was their first time in Europe and I understood why Paris made such a big impression on them. Most people were impressed by the City of Lights, even if they didn't usually love cities. There was some inexplicable force there that captivated you immediately. It wasn't a city one could ignore. It mesmerized you even if you tried to resist it. And once you were enchanted by all it had to offer, Paris didn't allow you to leave without indelible memories.
I had again taken the old road to reach our house. I wanted Al and Lee to see the France I had slowly started to love. We drove through small villages, none of them truly picturesque, but all typical of the area. People were continuing with their daily chores as they always did, unaware that some outsiders were witnessing their everyday lives.
We stopped in front of our house, carried the luggage to the guest bedroom and went to sit on the terrace. I got us some drinks and a few snacks. Just before we sat down Al's phone rang. It was a mutual friend from South Africa. Al couldn't stop telling him how great it was to be in Provence, how pleasant it was to be sipping an ice cold beer in the South of France.
The weekend sped past. It was the 2007 Rugby World Cup and we attended both the quarter final matches in Marseille. The rest of the time we introduced Al and Lee to French food and wine. As if in a moment, Monday morning arrived. It was time for them to leave again. They were on their way to Nice. I drove them to Miramas. From there they would take a train to Marseille and afterwards to the Riviera.
I have never liked saying goodbye, but that morning was particularly difficult. I didn't know when I would see them or any of my other friends again. I felt lost, left behind. The familiar feeling of isolation crept up on me and settled in my chest and stomach. I wanted to leave with them, longed to stay in the presence of someone well-known. I didn't want to stay behind, surrounded by strangers. I longed to be understood, to be with my own people.
I didn't have the energy to wait for the train to arrive. After I greeted them I drove to Salon-de-Provence. I went to a shop to buy a few things. Inside I walked around in a daze. In order to survive emotionally I had learnt to suppress my feelings, but it wasn't easy to ignore the weight in my chest and the unease in my stomach. I finished the shopping and returned home.
I still tried to fight off the feeling of emptiness when I entered my office. I sat down in front of the computer and switched it on. After I checked my e-mails I opened 'The Magic Pen' document. Only the two paragraphs I had written on Friday were there on the screen. I tried numerous times to write a new paragraph, but deleted everything I wrote time after time. Nothing wanted to happen. I had not even really started the story and I was already stuck. I closed the document and just sat there.
'Now what?' I asked myself aloud.
Good question. No answer presented itself, so I asked the same question again. Again the silence offered me nothing. I wanted to shout, to break the stillness, if only to fill the void with something. I didn't even have the energy for that.
Maybe I should try writing with a real pen on paper, I thought. That might release my creativity from the prison of doubt and fear I had created for it.
I looked in the drawer for my favorite pen. Before I could take it I saw the black pen I had picked up at the TGV station on Friday. I again saw the faces of the man who had lost it and the woman who had asked me to borrow it. When I saw them in my mind's eye they stood together at the station, talking happily to each other. They took each other's hand and left, fading into the dazzling sunshine outside.
I knew it didn't happen like that on Friday and wondered why I had witnessed that new scene. When I saw the man and woman they were separate, complete strangers to each other. She was attractive and he looked like the boring type. I didn't believe that she would even be interested in him in real life.
I picked up the pen and held it in my hand. I opened the cap and looked at the golden tip. I had not written with it yet. I took a writing pad off the shelf to my right and wrote 'The Magic Pen' on the page. The woman at the station was right, it was a pleasure to write with the pen. It glided effortlessly over the paper, fed it's white body with the vital juice of its ink.
I didn't know what else to write and copied the first two paragraphs of 'The Magic Pen' onto the page. The pen felt good in my hand, familiar, as if I had written with it many times before. The black ink flowed unrestrained from it.
When I finished the first two paragraphs I started with the third. It came easily and I wrote it without even really thinking about writing it. It was as if another part of me was writing there. In body I sat at my desk, but the feeling I got was that it wasn't really me who was writing. Or, if it was me, it was a part of me I didn't know existed. Maybe it was a part of me that had been in hiding for so long that I had forgotten about it.
I wrote for two hours, only stopping once in a while to take a sip of water. After that time I stopped and stared at my surroundings. I looked at the room around me as if I saw it for the first time. It felt like I had just awoken from a very deep sleep, a place filled with hundreds of vivid dreams.
I looked at the words on the pages and found it hard to believe that I had actually written them. I didn't want to read it again immediately. I believed that none of it would be any good. I actually thought it would be a chaotic collection of incoherent drivel. I placed the pen and the pages in the desk's bottom drawer and decided to read it the next day. Before I closed the drawer I looked at the pen. Why did I pick it up at the station? I wondered.
The next morning I returned to my office. I was excited to read what I had written the previous day. I took the pen and the pages from the drawer and started reading. While I read I realized that the story had been written in exactly the way I had hoped to write it. Somehow, without any effort from me, it had come to life. I was exhilarated.
I continued writing. It only took a few minutes before I was back inside the story. That morning I wrote nonstop for three hours. The characters, the setting, every idea I've had about the story just came to me. All I had to do was to write it down. I wrote faster and faster, in a writing frenzy that I hadn't experienced in ages.
That day I struggled to stop writing. I was so much into the story that it had become a truer reality than my everyday life. I also enjoyed being in the story more than being in my own life. I wanted to stay there, live with the characters I had created. They were friendlier, more understanding and familiar. Even the weather was better than in the real world.
I reluctantly put the pen down and again experienced the sensation of waking up, as if I had just stepped from another world, a place of unearthly beauty that wasn't accessible to just anyone. That fictitious world seemed far away from my own reality. I understood why I felt more at home there than in my office in France.
I looked out of the window. It was windy. The olive tree looked dull in the weak sun, stripped from beauty, void of any real magic. Even the birds were quiet. They had no songs to sing that morning. I no longer desired to fly away with them. All I wanted to do was to return to the world of 'The Magic Pen'. There everything was easy, life wasn't an effort and I felt good.
I got up. In a daze I roamed around the house before I went outside. I stood facing the wind and closed my eyes. For several minutes I remained there, allowing the wind to sway me and blow its cool breath over me. When I opened my eyes again I was fully awake.
I returned to the story again later that day and finished writing it in the late afternoon. When I read it from start to finish I was really satisfied with what I had written. It wasn't perfect, but it was as close to perfect as it would ever be. The words were arranged in a way that not only made sense but also moved me. I was sure that other people would also feel the effect the story had on me.
I picked the pen up.
'Thank you,' I said while looking at it.
After I had finished writing 'The Magic Pen', I wrote several other stories. All of them came to me easily. All I had to do was to listen and write them down. I had become a conduit for words. They flowed into me from an unknown source and through me onto the paper via the gold tipped point of the black pen.
I had never before been as happy as during that time. Again and again I returned to my writing pad. White pages no longer scared me. They were invitations to discover and explore new lands, all of them magical and beautiful. I loved going there, to those places where the writing transported me to.
When I didn't write I tried to continue living in the real world, but found it increasingly difficult to feel any attachment to that life. I felt removed from it, as if it no longer mattered. It was out there somewhere, no longer worth visiting. I didn't belong there, my place in the world was in a self-created reality, where I could decide what would happen and not allow the evils of society to reach me or my loved ones.
Some people, especially those involved in real jobs, would have frowned upon my new mode of life. To them it would only have looked like an illusion, a way of escaping from the responsibilities of real life. But to me the so-called real world became more absurd the further I removed myself from it. I unplugged the phone and disliked intrusions from the world outside my office, away from my pen and writing pad.
Few things in that manmade world made sense to me. It was a place of constant conflict and suffering, anger and fear, lies and broken promises. It was a place I no longer wanted to be part of. I was more comfortable in my own world, the one that was removed from the harshness of the other reality.
Days flowed in and out of each other in a stream of vivid pictures of other realities, other worlds. When I had to do things in the outside world I did it as quickly as possibly, in a trancelike state, robotically, always a few steps away from everything. When my tasks were finished I rushed back to my writing to cleanse myself from the stains that had rubbed off on me while I was exposed to that world.
One Friday night, exactly two weeks after I had picked up the Black Pen, my mobile phone rang. It was late at night and I was just about to switch it off when it started ringing. I looked at the number on the screen but didn't recognize it. I answered anyway.
It was Al. They were back in Paris after a visit to Nice and Scotland. I was very surprised to hear his voice. It was the Rugby World Cup final the next evening and I thought he was phoning about that.
'Where are you going to watch the final?' he asked.
'At home, with a few friends,' I said. 'And you?'
'We wanted to go and watch it live here in Paris, but the tickets which are available are too expensive. That's why I'm phoning. We were thinking of coming through to you again, then we can all watch it together.'
'Are you serious?' I asked, thinking that he was joking.
'Yes, I am. Do you have space for us?'
'Of course.'
'There are TGV tickets available for 10:00 a.m. tomorrow. We'll arrive at 13:30 in Avignon. Will you be able to come and pick us up?'
'Of course. I can't believe I'll be seeing you so soon again. I thought I'd only see you in SA in a few years.'
I arrived early at the TGV station that Saturday. I sat down on the same bench where I had sat when I picked up the black pen. I looked for the short man but expected that he would be absent. I anyway hoped that I wouldn't see him because I no longer wanted to give the pen back to him.
Since shortly after I wrote with the pen the first time I started believing that the pen was given to me for a reason. By writing with it it had become mine. Even if it initially belonged to the mysterious man I believed that it also belonged to me, maybe even more than it ever did to him.
Did he ever use it to write stories with? Or was it just a pen he occasionally used at work? If it was only a work pen I deserved to own it more than him. If he had never discovered the magic inside the pen he wasn't entitled to call it his own. I had discovered the hidden magic and together we had written beautiful stories.
If I had to return the pen to him the world would be denied the gift of other stories and it would be poorer because of that. Even if I had to fight to keep my pen, I would. I was willing to protect it with my life because without it I wouldn't be able to write and I would again feel dead inside.
My friends arrived. We drove home. That night South Africa won the World Cup. We were all elated. In a state of euphoria I took Al and Lee back to the TGV station the next morning. They wanted to be in Paris that afternoon. Their flight was only the next evening but they still had to buy a few presents before leaving.
We stood on Platform B. The wind blew hard. It was time to say goodbye. I knew they wouldn't return again soon and I said bye with difficulty. While we were busy saying our farewells a woman approached me. She looked very familiar. For a moment I thought it was the same woman that had borrowed the black pen from me a few weeks earlier, shortly after I had picked it up.
'Do you have a pen I can borrow? she asked.
'Yes,' I said and handed her the black pen. 'Just return it to me once you've finished. That pen is special.'
I watched the train pull out of the station. The woman handed the pen back. Absentmindedly I returned it to the pocket inside my jacket. I watched the train until it was out of sight. Who will come to visit us next? I wondered while I walked back to my car.
Monday morning I started looking for my pen. I searched through the desk drawer but couldn't find it. I removed all the stationery and papers from the drawer and threw it down on the desk. It still wasn't there. I felt cold, as if I had lost someone close to me.
What am I going to do without the pen? I asked myself.
Then I remembered that I had put it in the pocket of my jacket. I was relieved. That feeling didn't last long. When I removed the pen I noticed that it wasn't the right one. It was also black, but just a common ballpoint pen. The woman had switched my pen with that one before she gave it back to me.
'No', I screamed. 'How could she do that to me?'
I sat down, defeated. I knew that I would no longer be able to write stories, that my life as writer had come to an abrupt end when the woman had stolen my pen. I hadn't felt as lost in a very long time as I did that morning. I didn't even feel like writing.
I still found it difficult to believe that someone could steal someone else's pen. Didn't she know that a pen was something very personal, that it was like blood to a writer and that without one's special pen you would die? She was evil, I decided, a murderer. I wish I could find her again, to take my pen back and have her arrested.
For the next week I didn't write a word. I was too scared to even try. I believed that I wouldn't know how to write and just stayed away from writing completely. Then, one morning I sat down at my desk. I still don't know what prompted me to do it, but I took another pen out of the drawer.
I had an idea for a new story. I wrote the title down and started with the first paragraph. To my surprise I didn't find it difficult to write. The words and sentences came effortlessly to me. One paragraph followed the other and before long I had written five pages. I read it out loud and was content with what I had written. I looked at my old pen and wondered if it possessed its own magic.
For weeks I wrote every day. As soon as I finished one story I started with the next. I was very productive and the more I wrote the happier I became. I realized that I was doing good work and that I was sharing the hidden beauty of the world with other people.
The feedback I got from my readers was mostly positive and it was very rewarding. It no longer felt like I was writing in a vacuum. I was somehow connected to all those people out there. They were no longer unfriendly strangers out there somewhere. They had become part of my adventures, part of the personal story I wrote every day.
One morning while I wrote it dawned on me that the black pen I had picked up so many weeks before at the Avignon TGV station might not have possessed magic. Maybe it was just a catalyst, something I was given to show me that the magic I was looking for was already there, hidden inside me. My only duty was to release it, to allow it to speak with its own voice. And that's exactly what happened when my rational mind moved out of the way. When I allowed my voice to speak for itself it was no longer scared to say what it had to say, it was no longer afraid to share its vision of the world with others and by doing so, giving them hope, joy and love.
Months later I returned to the Avignon TGV station. I waited for friends to arrive from Nice. I scanned the crowd, looking for the woman who had stolen my pen. I didn't even know if I would take it back if I saw her. I also knew that the chances of seeing her again were very low.
While I watched everybody coming and going I suddenly saw her. I couldn't believe it. I got up and slowly started walking towards her. She had just stopped next to another woman. I came to a standstill when I was within hearing distance.
'May I borrow your pen? the woman who had stolen my pen said.
'Yes, of course,' the other woman said and handed her a pen.
'Thank you,' she said and took the pen.
A train arrived. People swarmed around the two women. When they had gone past, the pen thief was no longer visible. I looked at the exit of the station and saw her leaving. She approached a man. It was the short man who had lost his pen. Together they walked off into the distance. I let them go and turned back to the woman who had lent the other woman her pen.
She looked at the pen in her hand, as if she had never seen it before. I walked over to her and asked her if I could borrow her pen. She looked surprised.
'It's not really mine,' she said. 'You can borrow it. You can even keep it if you really want to. I just picked it up a few minutes ago.'
I took the pen from her. It was the black pen. My pen. I wrote something in my notebook and lifted it to my nose to take a deep breath.
'It smells wonderful,' I said and handed it back to her. 'Keep the pen,' I said. 'Write with it for a while and then you can give it away. Thank you for lending it to me. Have a nice day. Goodbye.'
I left the woman there. When I looked back over my shoulder one last time she was still looking at the pen, wondering why she had picked it up.
'You will understand soon,' I said softly to myself and left the station.
About the author: André Ferero is a writer, reader, traveler, dreamer and music lover. He believes that all human beings are creative and that creativity should be encouraged and nurtured to prevent it from disappearing in the chaos of the modern world.
André Ferero was born in Pretoria, South Africa but currently lives in the South of France, between Avignon and Aix-en-Provence. He believes that he was sent to earth from another planet to bring an important message to earthlings. Unfortunately he has forgotten what the message is and is trying to find it again through his writing.
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