[ WP ] The Writer : A War of Words

The pen truly was beautiful. A pearly white barrel, a golden clip, and leaving a jet black stroke. Jones reflected on his luck for having gotten it. He'd just been walking down the street when some raggedy old hobo asked him for some change. Jones had declined of course, but not before nabbing the pen from the hobo's paper cup. Jones had reasoned that the rag man was probably illiterate, or had stolen the thing, and in any case should n't have been in possession of such a pretty trinket. 
 
 But now that he had the pen, what was he supposed to do with it? Gaze longingly into the soft white texture of the barrel and get lost in its delicately swirled gloss? No... write. Yes write! That was what you did with pens. 
 
 So Jones pulled out a ream of paper, cracked his knuckles in anticipation, and not quite knowing how to begin, started off with an easy page filler. 
 
 *This page is intentionally left blank. * 
 
 The world made soft sucking noise, like someone finishing off a smoothie, and then went white. Indeed, everything except Jones' little setup of a desk, pen, and paper, had entirely disappeared. Blank. 
 
 He lay the pen down gently, and bit his fingernails nervously. 
 `` Did I do that?'' He muttered to himself. 
 
 `` You sure did sonny-boy.'' 
 
 The new voice made Jones jump, and he whipped himself around to see an old man dressed in rags grinning like a fool. Jones' just stared, dumbfounded, and the old man picked up the slack. 
 
 `` May-haps you should n't have taken an old man's possession. Hmm?'' 
 
 `` I... I'm sorry...'' Jones stammered. And then with a little more heart, `` What's the meaning of all this?'' 
 
 `` Meaning, hmm? Wrong question. Is there meaning when a careless child knocks over a priceless vase? No. But must that child do all he can to mend his error? Yes.'' And the old man motioned to the stack of empty pages laying on the desk. Jones instinctually started to protest at the suggestion of doing any work, but caught himself, and instead only uttered an embarrassing squeak. 
 
 Pen back in hand, he looked down at the next sheet. What should write? He was no writer. He had n't a writer's bone in his body! And what should it be about? How would writing fix anything? Oh well, he had to start somewhere. 
 
 The pen dropped down, leaving an obsidian trail. 
 
 *The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. * 
 
 Jone's eyes widened as the scene materialized in front of him. There it was, a speedy fox jumping over a rather lethargic dog. But after a couple jumps the fox paused, like it had realized that it was doing something silly. It turned to look up at Jones, and Jones noted how intent its eyes were, how sharp its teeth were, and how... quickly it could move. 
 
 In a flurry of motion, Jones jotted more words down. 
 
 *And then a bear appeared* 
 
 Foxes were afraid of bears, right? Oh dear, that was quite a large bear. And it did n't seem very happy about having been poofed into existence. The bear growled, and Jones trembled in his seat. He needed help. Frantically, he tried to write for it. 
 
 *but a night came to stop it. * 
 
 There was a loud crackling, and everything went dark. This confused Jones, for he had never quite grasped homonyms, and he noticed that the sky was populating itself with stars. Suddenly there was more crackling, this time permeated by a low and angry buzz. 
 
 `` What have you done, hmm?'' The old man asked, looking over Jones' shoulder at the paper. `` Ohh, made a mistake have you. I've never done that before.'' 
 
 Jones thought the man was being far too calm about all this, and watched in horror as the darkness began to concentrate around the bear. The bear's powerful limbs tried to resist, but slowed as if they were moving through a thick jello. The bear's neck arched back with a loud snap, and its motionless figure hung in the concentrated blackness. 
 
 Jones could feel the presence now. The night was hungry 
 
 `` Enough of this,'' spoke the man, still grinning, `` its clear that you could n't write yourself out of a wet paper bag, and from the look on your face I'd say that you've learnt your lesson.'' And in one swift action, far too dextrous for his age, the man took the pen from Jones' hand and began to write. 
 
... 
 
 It did n't take nearly as long as Jones thought it would for the universe to be rewritten, and soon he was once again sitting at home with a world surrounding him. He noticed the pen back in his hand, and also that the ream of paper in front of him was once again entirely blank. 
 
 But this time it was the paper that stayed blank, and somewhere out on the streets a grinning homeless man was happy to have his pen returned along with a generous handful of change. 

