Pen Pal Stories Novels & Stories

Cade wandered into the kitchen with a large pad and a pack of pencils. He wore a puzzled look. “Have you been in the den today?” “Yeah, I was in there earlier. Why?” “I can’t find my pens.” “I don’t remember seeing them, but we could go look after dinner.” “I hope I haven’t lost them. The pens have sentimental value. They were the first things I bought when I signed my first contract.”

"Now, what are you doing out here instead of getting ready for bed?" Saben crossed his arms. "Grandma Teresa said I had to sleep early, but Aunt Penelope is telling funny stories. And I don't wanna miss them." Sabrina arched a brow. "Funny stories?" Saben nodded eagerly. "She said she has lots of embarrassing stories about you, Mommy!" She smiled at him, a slow grin. "Oh, this I have to hear." Sabrina groaned. "I should have banned Penelope from talking." Benedict chuckled and scooped Saben up in his arms. "Come on, let's go hear what Aunt Penelope has to say."

Yeah, he's right, they're not real, they're just fictional characters that I made up, but somehow, last night's dream felt so strange. After we ate breakfast, Xander headed to his football training, and I went back to home to continue writing my story. I searched for my favorite pen, the one grandma gave me and the one that I used writing this story. It's my first time using it since she died last year. She told me that everything I will write using that pen will come true. Well, I suppose it means my dreams will, ever since I was a child, I always wanted to become an author joining school contests instead of studying.

Sixty years of the second life. She writes with the new pen — the fourth pen now, each one succeeding the last, each one carrying the weight of its predecessor without requiring the predecessor's history. She bought this pen in January. It has ten months of briefs in it. Forty years of practice in her, flowing through a ten-month pen. The pen is the vessel. The practice is the thing.

“You’ve always been the one people go to for words, Layla. It’s about time yours take the front seat.” When I got home that evening, something was waiting at my door. A small package, neatly wrapped in soft navy paper. No note this time, no name. But I knew. Inside was a silver pen—elegant, weighty in my palm, engraved subtly with three words: Your Story Matters. Tucked beside it was a tiny scroll of parchment. Write like the world is listening, Layla. Because it is. —A. I closed my eyes, pressing the pen to my chest.

Just insert my penname on here in place of firstname and lastname. I want to thank you for being the amazing people that you are! See you amongst the turning pages, Shana Allen

I put an arm on the table and keep watching in silence. "I wasn't gossiping, Suzy. It's just that Lop wanted me to tell stories for her to sleep. And I don't know how to tell children's stories and things like that. So I told you the real stories I know.” “Lop? "I emphasize, arching my eyebrow. Holy God, even exclusive nicknames they already have. I feel a sudden need to laugh. Penelope touches my arm and leans lightly as if to tell a secret, the movement makes the mask on the table roll to the side.