Pulpen Air Novels & Stories

"I’m going to upload your mind into her body, and her mind into yours. Permanently. You’ll have her youth, and I’ll have my daughter back in a body that can actually breathe the real air." "No," I whispered. "Why not? It’s what you’ve always wanted. To be real again." He looked at me closely. Too closely. His eyes traveled from my hair down to the way I was holding the black pen in my hand. I had forgotten I was still holding it. The purple ink was leaking onto the gold sleeve of the suit. The Publisher’s face changed. The love disappeared. It was replaced by a look of pure horror. "Elena doesn't know how to use the pen," he said softly. "She hated the ink. She said it smelled like death."

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 was Haven Kenway, and I would not let some stupid, twelve-year-old boy get to me. I grabbed my favorite pencil — one of the good ones, the kind with the type of eraser that didn’t leave annoying streaks on the paper — and I sharpened it with my handheld sharpener until it was as pointy as possible. My pencils always had to be sharp. I couldn’t stand dull pencils. I then took out a piece of my nice, crisp, white paper with perfect blue lines, and wrote back to my pen pal who didn’t want me.

It just quieted, until it became something softer, harder to recognize. A week into my solitude, a small package arrived at my doorstep. No sender’s name, just my address written neatly across the front. Inside was a fountain pen. The same kind I lost years ago, the same brand Joaquin once said was his favorite. There was no note. No explanation. But I didn’t need one. I knew it was from him. And that tiny gesture undid me more than any apology could have. That night, I sat at my desk, staring at the blank page on my screen. My fingers hovered over the keys. The cursor blinked, waiting.

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.

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.

"If the 'Nothing' is the only place where you can't touch me, then give me the Nothing! Give us back our silence!" The words in the air flickered. ***"Very well. But silence has a price. You want to be 'Real'? Then you must survive the 'Edit.'"*** --- ### The Red Ink Suddenly, the silver Pen vanished. It was replaced by something much worse. A giant, thick, wooden pencil with an **Eraser** the size of a mountain descended from the clouds. But this wasn't the "Eraser" I had used. This was the Red Pen. The tool of correction. The tool of deletion.

“You need something to write in.” “Write?” I repeated. “But I have no parchment.” He picked up a small book with blank pages. “This is a journal.” I touched the cover reverently. “A diary. To record my thoughts. But how do I write without a quill?” He held up a slim object. Shiny. Plastic. Suspicious. “This is a pen.” “Pen,” I said slowly. “It resembles a miniature weapon.” “It is not sharp.” “What does it use to write? Magic? Blood? Sap?”