It started out like any other evening, scribbling stories across the ruled paper of his pad.
Over the years he had written all kinds of stories, but of late his focus had turned to romantic tales. He’d been struggling with his latest piece, not sure whether his young couple would end up living happily ever after or not. In fact, he was crossing words out and putting others in, when he heard a faint tutting sound.
He wiggled a finger in both ears. Shrugging it off, he picked up his pen. He had only written a few words when he heard it again, but louder. “Tut, tut.” This was followed by the pen moving slightly in his hand. He almost dropped it. He sat quietly for a few moments. Then, out of the blue, a tiny voice said, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
He sat in shocked silence, looking around. As far as he knew, he was the only one in the house.
It came again. “Are you listening?” This time the pen vibrated between his fingers.
He managed to speak. “Yes, but…”
The tiny voice said, “I do worry about you sometimes. I mean, are you really sure this is what you want? Really, some of your lines are so lame. I think you need more romance and less mush!”
He looked at the pen. “I’m supposed to think that my pen is talking to me?”
“Why not?”
“Well, they don’t.”
“Yes, they do. When it’s necessary.”
“Necessary?”
“Look, let’s get right to it. This stuff you’ve been using me to write of late, it’s too mushy.”
“What do you mean, mushy.”
“Well, look back at your third paragraph where you have him say that he was her lifetime companion for her inner soul, Yuk! Pure mush!”
He went to speak.
“Look there,” the pen went on, “page three.”
He looked down at the page.
“You say there that their spirits are entwined, let’s face it, that sounds really messy. Then over the page you say that she always feels safe in his embrace, well, OK, maybe I’ll let that pass. But look here near the bottom of the page, where he says that her breath lets him live, I mean, you’ve got a major medical conflict there, surely. On the next page,” the pen waited while he turned the paper over, “here, were he says he remembers how her sighs of love echoed through the forest, I ask you, come on, echoing through the forest , her sighs, give me a break!”
He asked, “Is there anything you do like?”
“OK. These other bits aren’t so bad I suppose. The breeze from the forest whispering her name is alright, I guess.”
“You guess?”
Reluctantly, the pen said, “It’s OK.”
“Any more?”
“Your line about her life only having meaning when he is with her, only just passes muster, and I guess the bit about their love being timeless and endless is OK, but even that, you know, is it really necessary?”
He was saying, “Well, I must have thought so at the time,” when he heard a faint tutting sound, as his pen fell to the floor.
He woke realising that he had let time slip by. He picked his pen up and put it back in the pot. He looked at his clock. Time to pack up. He glanced it the scribbles all over his notepad. He wondered if he wasn’t having so much trouble because he was getting too mushy. No, he thought. Mush was good.
As he switched the light off, something rattled in his pen pot.
She was considering what can happen between the ‘hadn’t’ and the ‘wouldn’t’.
