Richard tore his house apart trying to find the object of his desire. He knew had one left. He knew it. He’d kept one hidden so that when his need was great it would be there for him to use.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t remember where he had hidden it.
His dresser drawers were taken out, turned upside down and their contents dumped unceremoniously on the bed. He’d quickly sifted through the scattered contents and then moved on. He had already emptied out his desk drawers, knowing he wouldn’t find it there, but needing a “logical” place to start. After the dresser had been checked thoroughly he moved on to the shelves in his closet. Every box was taken down, dumped out, and picked through.
He was beginning to panic.
Richard had known the day would come. The first time he had been told he was no longer allowed to turn in hand written assignments at school, that everything needed to be written on a computer and sent in via email, or loaded to a shared drive, or somehow otherwise transmitted electronically to receive credit, he had known the day would come when the written word would go extinct. Tragically, he had known that day would happen in his lifetime too.
He’d gone straight out and purchased as many writing instruments (paper, pens, pencils, crayons, paint brushes, paints, parchment, canvas, etc…) as he could afford and stuffed his car beyond capacity. He’d used his resources sparingly over the years, not wanting to ever see the day when he ran out. But that day was nearly upon him anyway. His love for writing, and drawing, and creating by hand, analog if you will, rather than digital, had outweighed his concern for his future needs and one by one, albeit slowly, he had worked through his treasure trove.
Richard tore his house apart trying to find his last pen. As the only person he knew who still deigned to use such an archaic creative instrument, and having not been able to replenish his stores in several years, for all Richard knew it was the last pen in the world.
With a sigh of relief, he released it from the taped hiding spot on the fourth slat from the top underneath his bed-frame and clutched it protectively to his chest. He let his breathing and pulse rate return to normal, crisis averted, and then went to write the last two items on his grocery list.
Word Count: 405
This week’s response to the InMon prompt. I know, I know, it’s another silly one. What can I say? I am Jester after all…
Want to play along?
There are none. Read the prompts, get inspired, write something. No word count minimum or maximum. You don’t have to include the exact prompt in your piece, and you can interpret the prompt(s) any way you like.
No really; I need rules!
Okay; write 200-500 words on the prompt of your choice. You may either use the prompt as the title of your piece or work it into the body of your piece. You must complete it before 6 pm CST on the Monday following this post.
COUNTRY WITHOUT HISTORY
THE LAST PEN
THE CROWD GOES “MOO”