Pen X Pencil Novels & Stories

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.

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

Maybe he was going to succeed after all. He stuck his hand inside my boxers, his warm hand and strong fingers getting my shaft out of its constraints. He looked me in the eyes as he did so, licking his lips. Before beginning, he got up on his feet and leaned over me, his hands resting on my knees. He then pulled out a small pencil from his back pocket. A light purple pencil, to be exact. "What color is this?" He asked, waving the pencil in front of my eyes. I couldn't believe he was fucking doing this.

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.

Valkyrie Behati “You’re making it too dark,” Pierre informed me as I shaded a pair of realistic eyes. The white charcoal pen I was using almost turned black from my mistakes. “Sorry about that, I’m still adjusting to how this pen works,” I admitted before starting over again. Pierre leaned over, his eyes studying my work closely. He was always patient, always ready to offer advice, but I could see the hint of concern in his expression. “Try to go lighter with your strokes,” he suggested gently. “This pen is delicate. It’s easy to go too heavy.”

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

The ball point pen said to the pencil. “It's ok. As long as she's pweeedddyy” the pencil replied. “Seriously, Micah…” “I like her pretty hair” the pencil continued. “I like her pretty eyes” the pen replied. “And I like her pretty everything” Micah said in his normal voice. I blinked rapidly. I hadn't been expecting him to cut it out so suddenly. Neither had I been expecting him to say…all of that.

"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.

It was calling my name like a siren, and I refused to ignore it. When I took it to the counter, I spotted a display of pens that caught my eye right away. I asked to see them and the lady behind the counter disassembled one for me. Oh, my, where had this pen been all my life? It had a roller point, but it used classic fountain pen ink. She let me try it and I knew it had to be mine. It didn’t feel like scratching the paper, but caressing it, and the dark blue ink flowed perfectly.