Okay guys, I found this little, unedited story that I wrote for Havoc on her birthday while I was going through some of my old composition notebooks. So try not to judge me on this piece. (:
She figured that there was something poetic about pens. What she wrote in pen couldn’t be erased. She liked that. She liked knowing that what she wrote would be there forever.
She liked the feel of the pen in her hands, the way that the ink and her thoughts complimented each other perfectly.
She’d always been gifted. So skilled with the pen. Perhaps it was illegible, but when anyone could read it, the words that lay underneath all that terrible handwriting was something golden.
She just liked the permanace. It was something that she’d always liked. She liked knowing that she could count on those words always being there. Just as she liked knowing what, or who, she could count on.
And she could count on the pens. She could count on the words staying there forever, the same way that she could count on her home in Small Town America, the way that she could count on community events and her best friend.
She could count on the pens.