Pen X Pencil Novels & Stories

I don’t have a clue what type of pencil she use with her drawings. Blue pencils, yellow pencils, green pencils and oh there’s mechanical pencils too. I stared at these pencils for five seconds and picked an orange Faber Castle mechanical pencil. It says from the packaging grip matic and 0.5, I don’t even know the purpose of the number 0.5, but I took it anyway.

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."

She gave a slight, polite bow of her head and left as quietly as she’d come. For a moment, I just looked at the package. Then, with fingers that trembled slightly, I tore the paper away. Inside was a sketchbook. Not just any sketchbook. It was the exact large-format, heavyweight paper brand I preferred, the one with the slightly rough finish that held charcoal perfectly. Nestled in the crease was a full, untouched set of professional-grade graphite and charcoal pencils, ranging from hard to impossibly soft. There was a kneaded eraser, a blending stump, even a small, precise pencil sharpener. It was a perfect, complete kit. Better than the one I’d left at home.

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,

I pulled it back. A pen. Not a promotional pen. Not plastic or cheap or branded. Silver, slim, weighted in the particular way of things made to last rather than to be disposable — the kind of pen you used to sign something that mattered. Personal to the point of deliberate. It fit between my fingers without effort, perfectly balanced, cold and quiet in my hand. No note inside. Nothing written anywhere. Not a word, not an initial, not a signature. But the message was there anyway, written in the grammar of the object itself, in the fact that someone had gone to the specific trouble of choosing this, of having it delivered here, of wrapping it this way.

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.