Pen X Pencil Novels & Stories

I looked at the black page in front of me, the sharpened pencil felt strange in my hands, bringing memories of two little boys giggling with identical smiles as they painted and drew on our mother’s wall, standing together through her scolding and punishments when she’d tell us to go to our room, a place we would so much rather be. I swallowed and went to work. The sound of our pencils against the crisp paper filled the silence. The only sound came from Jones cutting up vegetables for our lunch in the kitchen. “You’re pressing too hard.” Felix suddenly snuck up behind me, eyes glaring at the pencil I held. “I like holding my pencil like this.” “You’ll snap the pencil, Elias. I got those from

Snatching the pen, I pressed it against the paper. "VX-913-W12," I murmured as I penned it down. I wrote Herley District below it. Then the other images began playing in my mind. The red blinking dots, the massive dome screens, my kids. I scribbled furiously, my handwriting a bit jagged and messy. It was barely legible but it didn't seem to matter to me. As I scribbled, my fingers brushed on something else. I paused, blinking severally. Beside the paper and pen lay a thin box with a set of graphic pencils.

My scepticism hit the bull's eyes when she opened the black box to show us its contents. "This, my dearies, is called a ballpoint pen. It is used for writing and was made from the most resilient metal found in this continent, also, it is filled with dragon dregs ink. It is said to have been crafted by a wonderous wizard, the mechanism is of the most modern technology and can be accessed with this switch right at the end." She said as she demonstrated by clicking on the sliding switch of the pen to get out the nip and wrote her name on a piece of parchment paper. "See? And the best part of it all is that you don't have to wait for the ink to dry and you can carry it around anywhere and everyw

Dropping the present on his table, she shot him a look that told him he had a lot of questions to answer and stalked out of his expensively furnished office, red bottom heels in tow. Brows furrowed, Xaver studied the box. It looked soft, as though clothed in soft black cotton cloth, the white ribbon round it giving a touch of feminity. Sighing, he pulled the ribbon off and lifted the lid. Inside the rectangular space, a pen sat in the middle, sleeping on a royal purple pillowy cushion. A tad bit similar to the box it came in, the pen had a glossy black colour. The surface so painstakingly polished, he caught a faint view of his reflection on the clear dark mirror. The lid and the edges were

She explained as she took the pen out of the casing and showed it to Freya, though, still careful not to turn on the taser feature. “Woah, that’s nice. Maybe I should ask Hestia where she could buy that. I also would love to have that.” commented Freya as she observed the pen from the hold of Yulia. Indeed, even the pen itself looked so elegant and delicate, also the intricate carvings of vines and flowers by the body and the initials of Yulia were detailed and so mesmerising to look at to the point that she remembered that expensive pen: Graf von Faber- Castell Pen. but unfortunately, her time of admiring the pen was needed to be cut short. “And you should see this o—” Yulia was about to sa

The black ink on the heavy archival paper was dry, but the hand that had pressed the metal nib into the page had left deep, physical grooves in the fiber. The force behind the pen had been real, a heavy, downward pressure that had scarred the paper itself. My fingers traced those deep, ragged impressions, mapping the physical weight of the writer's hand. It was like reading a silent, tactile record of someone’s focused, unyielding intent.

"You shouldn't have to." "Maybe not. But I am." I walked over to the table and picked up one of the art pencils Noah had left there. It was a simple graphite pencil, worn down and smudged with charcoal. It felt better in my hand than any of the expensive pens at Moore Crest. "How is Dad?"

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.

W͟i͟n͟t͟e͟r͟ Several empty plates are piled on the dining room table, abandoned for the notebooks and small pile of pens that are stacked in the middle of the coffee table. I have a slight addiction to pens. I brought an entire bag with me. A small bag but a bag nevertheless. My favorite glitter covered bag. Gel pens, glitter, shimmer, and a few select pens of various colors. Some colored pencils and a coloring book.

I imagined a pen. Not a pristine, leather‑bound fountain pen like in stock photos. The cheap, half‑chewed ballpoint I’d used to scribble ideas on receipts. The gel pen that had exploded in my bag and stained the lining forever. The actual one I’d had in my hand the night I died, when I’d been revising a scene over glass‑too‑many of terrible wine. It fluttered before my mind’s eye. Small. Insignificant. Mine. I pictured it in my right hand.