A pen and an inkwell: now far from each other, though once had been neighbors for sure. They’d been put right together, they thought, for forever, but conversing by now was a chore.
Said the pen to the inkwell, “By golly where are you? I’m useless here standing alone!?” “Why I’m way over here,” said the inkwell indignantly, “Appear I to sit on a throne?!”
See this was such a pun, since the inkwell indeed had been thrown cross the study’s wood floor. “I’ve been emptied you pin head!” the inkwell continued, by now the pen knew he was sore.
“Well your tone is quite rough,” said the pen with a huff, as she’d never quite heard him so mad. “I should think,” said the inkwell, “You might understand… with my ink gone I’m 'sposed to be glad?!”
“Glad? Why of course not,” the pen shouted back, as she tried her best now to contrive. “But just think,” she continued, “I’m happy to hear you, to know that you’re truly alive.”
“So now what should I do?” the inkwell asked timidly, wondering what more could be said. “I’m not sure,” said the pen, as she spun back around, simply scratching the point on her head.
“Are you totally empty? 100%?” said the pen in a tentative tone. “Honestly, I’d say there’s 20%,” said the inkwell, “It isn’t all gone.”
“Just enough to get upright,” the pen shouted out, “Simply muster up all of your strength!” And in no time at all, now the inkwell stood tall, well as tall as an inkwell has length.
“That’s much better,” he said, though his face had turned red, for he really had tested his brawn. “Now just climb right back up here,” the pen followed up, “for you’ve been away far for too long!”
“Just climb right back up here?” the inkwell said hastily, “That’s all you think I must do? I’ve been throttled about, my ink nearly poured out! Tell me what inconvenience have you?”
“I’ve been sitting here patiently,” replied the pen, “Been supportive and worried it’s true. See you’re my other half. I can’t fill my potential unless I am counting on you.”
“So you need me?” the inkwell said, leveraging his case, as he knew this fact quite all along. “Then I hope you remember this, next time you blame me for words that may write out all wrong!”
“Why how dare you!” the pen said with nearly a burst, of embarrassment biting her tongue. “Why it isn’t my fault! I just need a good cleaning, and I’ll write again as if I’m young.”
“Well it’s you and the floor then,” the inkwell replied, with a reference to his shiny puddle. “But I can’t come back up there, without a real hand. Why don’t you and the desk supplies huddle.”
So the pen gathered up all the other inhabitants willing and able to think: the stapler, the paperclips, envelope knife and a stamp pad of burgundy ink.
“We’ve come up with a plan,” yelled the pen to the inkwell, relaying the steps, as they’d come: “First we’ll link all these paper clips one to another, and attach to the staplers drum…
Next we’ll drop down the inkpad, for you to climb onto, and the envelope knife will hold fast. And before you can know it you’ll be hoisted upwards, beside me, the pen, at long last!”
And their plan would have worked if a one certain jerk-cat who’d started the sorted ordeal, hadn’t leapt up AGAIN where he didn’t belong, scattering desk supplies paw front to heel.
“Git now and scat!” said the man to the cat, as he shooed the foul miscreant away. “How’d you get in my study, you small wicked beast?” he asked angrily without delay.
With a hiss and a pounce, the cat he was gone, and the man started sopping up ink. “Guess today isn’t after all, quite that inspiring,” the writer said giving a wink.
by Bryande Murray
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