Pen X Pencil Novels & Stories

I smiled at him as he handed me the new pen, and inspected it as I brought it closer to my view. “The design is similar to the used pen, huh?” I asked. “Indeed.” Taylor nodded. “It is quite a high-quality pen, bought from Bivorak Company.” I raised an eyebrow. “High quality?” Taylor cleared his throat. “That one in your hands, My Lord. Can last for several years with consistent ink filling. The pen that you just discarded have lasted two to three years actually.” “Oh.” I pursed my lips. Obviously, I won’t remember it. I am not Lancelot, and I rarely use a pen that needs ink filling back in my previous world. But to have a pen that can be filled up with ink, huh? That sounds really useful.

The chalk felt brittle between my fingers, leaving a dry, powdery film across the permanent gray scars of my palm. Unlike the cedar pen or the iron type-bed, it carried no memory of a ledger, no structural weight from the Spire, and no residual scent of lavender or ash. It was a tool that existed entirely in the present tense—designed to write, designed to smudge, and designed to be erased without leaving a ghost behind on the stone.

Eva Point Of View'' I gripped the pen as if it were about to snap at me. The weight of it surprised me—sleek, heavy, real gold. It felt like a weapon dressed as luxury. "Initial here," Felix said, tapping the first page. "And here. And here."

Dad said that I would now be needing more pens as my work is now corporate one, these pens all has may name on it, an engraved one. I opened and looked at it one by one, I do not want to use it as these are the last memoir I have with dad. I was about to put it back on the box when I opened the last pen and it has a built-in flash drive in it, in my surprised, I stare at it for a while.

“For your daughter.” I took it, peeking inside. It contained two things: a small, perfect container of ripe, red strawberries, and a box of the highest-quality, most expensive colored pencils I had ever seen. “The strawberries,” he said, his voice clinical, “have a documented high concentration of antioxidants and natural sugars, conducive to post-stress nutritional replenishment for a child. The pencils are artist-grade. Their pigment density and lightfastness are superior. They represent a logical progression from watercolor.”

Gaspar promised me surrendering. My smile became wider because he finally agreed. "I have a paper here and a pen," Stefano said and took out from his bag a paper and a pen—a very medieval type of pen that has a black feather and an inker. I immediately came and took it. I'm not good at using this pen but I can still write well. Honey,

He disguised himself and gained her trust. Everything that had happened until now was in Spencer's trust. Spencer's goal was clear. However, there was one thing Ellena did not understand. Why did Spencer have to deal with Edward? Ellena took out the old pen from her body. Her expression was solemn. Edward, you must be fine. She stared at the pen for a long time and suddenly thought of something. She held the pen closer and carefully observed the pen. When she was young, almost everyone had this brand of pen. When the school used this pen as a prize, in order to show the difference, they would carve the winner's name on the pen shell.

I peer from it to her. "It's pencils, different sizes and shades." She smiles slightly. "I'll get us a drink. Wait here, okay?" She asks, and I nod. I watch as she walks out. Opening the sketch pad, I open the case of pencils. It's unusual, I'm used to one, so I'm not sure how to use these, as I can see they are different in thickness and shades. I do, though; I sit and begin to sketch, waiting for her to return.

He thought: the drawing is ready. He drew it in ink with the mapping pen — the same pen he had used for the three-generation house section and the library extension section and the community centre section. The pen that made the single weight line, the honest line without hierarchy, the line that did not know whether it was a wall or a window or a shelf until the drawing made it so.

I had picked a matte black fountain pen with a silver clip and told him to buy blue-black ink with it. This one. Low-key, but not boring. Blue-black ink too. It’ll make your comments look less like death threats. He had replied almost instantly. Whatever you choose is perfect. I stared at the old messages for a few seconds, then sent: Are you using that pen? His answer came at once. Using it right now. It writes really well. A photo followed. The black pen lay across a stack of printed pages. The angle avoided most of the room, but a corner of red handwriting showed near the edge.