It’s been a long cold week, and I’m relieved to see the end of it. I wish you all a wonderful weekend, and plan to type to you all on Monday.
Office life had changed drastically for the inhabitants of the desk. No longer were they central to the activities of the office. Rarely were their services called upon, and frequently, their lives had become meaningless, simply waiting, hoping they would be put to the purpose they had been born to achieve.
These days, the pen merely endured the long working hours, watching. Sometimes, she wouldn’t even be touched. Others, she’d be grabbed forcefully to make a miniscule mark, shoved into a cup, or rolled across the desk only to fall onto the ground. Many was the time that the pen looked longingly towards the keyboard and its nearly constant contact with fingers, their light dance across the keys reminding her of the time when the fingers were always wrapped around her middle, and how the thoughts flowing from the hand onto the paper through her very own ink created such lovely lines and glorious words!
That was a lifetime ago. The glowing picture frame with its attendant manipulation tools the mouse, and the keyboard, took all of the writer’s attentions. For a time, the pen tried to ignore the growing isolation. “It was only a phase,” she told herself, “He’d need her again soon.” When it was clearly not a phase, the pen attempted to damage the keys by falling on them with her full weight whenever possible, but, to no avail. The keyboard easily withstood these attacks, without once even realizing they were, in any way, minatory.
One day, when the pen had given up trying to attract the attention of the fingers, she felt herself suddenly lifted towards a fresh stack of beautifully clean and flat paper! Excitement filled her with a sense of purpose: She would not let the fingers down! She’d show them what they had been missing! The words would never flow more freely.
She had lain dormant too long. Her foot stumbled on the path. She was forced to do dizzying circles, to coax the ink to flow. The pen focused with all her might to deliver the ink to the page, and finally the ink arrived…
Too Fast. The ink was flowing faster than she could control it. Soon the ink was everywhere, and large splotches were spreading quickly over the paper, and covering the fingers.
The fingers tossed the poor pen towards the waste basket with a quick snap. Cold and alone, her ink runs out, pooling in the bottom of the bin.
Sorta bleak there in the end, huh? Well, Happy Friday!
minatory: / men – AH – tore – ee / threatening, having a menacing quality.