The Fountain Pen by A.J. Cole (free novel 24 .txt) 📖

a few weeks I could start some light physical therapy to rebuild any muscles that had decided to atrophy, and would be given a walker. When I threatened to bash every member of the medical community over the head with it who came within ten feet of me with such a thing, they revised it to crutches.

The cat seemed okay with all this, mainly because Wynn was feeding her and taking care of the litter box, which meant she had me to herself the rest of the time. I was her captive; she spent a ridiculous amount of time on my stomach, either washing herself, or tucking her paws in so she looked like a fuzzy box with a head, and purring. Not a bad life, really.

When the time came for me to haul my butt off the bed and try ambulating, I got glared at by said cat. Resentment gleamed in her huge green eyes. Claws seemed to be on the verge of springing forth from their fleshy sheathes. Wynn handed me the crutches, I stood – keeping an eye on my pissed puss in case she felt inclined to engage in a sudden attack – and took my first step in what felt like years. A minor hiss, but no attack, no claws digging into my unencumbered leg. Guess she’d already adjusted. Whatever.

“Try walking to the door,” Wynn suggested, holding one elbow. One of my elbows, not one of his. That would have been weird.

“The bedroom door, yes?”

“Yes. Unless you feel okay with trying for another one.”

I had many doors in this apartment, but none of them hove into view on my inner movie screen. “Nah. The bedroom door is fine.” I took a step. I took another. Ouch. Where the break was didn’t hurt. My upper thigh muscle was unhappy. Great. I stopped.

“What’s wrong?”

I leaned closer to him and whispered, “My leg is broken.”

He nodded. “If you weren’t in such a state,” he whispered back, “I’d tickle you until you begged for mercy.”

“Ah. Well, I have at least one crutch I don’t need to stay upright, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

“Uh-oh. And why are we whispering?”

I gestured toward the cat, who seemed more interested in something that wasn’t in the corner than she was in us. “She’s so young, Wynn. They’re like little sponges at that age.”

“Furry black sponges. The mind boggles.”

“Yes. It does.” I took a deep breath and continued walking, determined not to be defeated by a rebellious thigh muscle.

Things got better as the days went on. My thigh went back to doing its job without further complaint, I was able to get around without anyone’s help, and two weeks after the accident, I was back at my computer, working on the three jobs I still had (two others had expressed good wishes for my dilemma but said they really needed to get things done, and cancelled my contract). This brought me to the middle of March.

On a Saturday afternoon, after finishing up an email to one of the advertising companies, I had gone into the kitchen to make a late lunch for the cat and me. Before I could get to the refrigerator, the doorbell rang.

I made an angry bear sound and went to the door.

“Afternoon, ma’am. Is, er,” the UPS guy interrupted himself to turn his electronic clipboard around, “Perry Driscoll here? He needs to sign for this.” He held up a small, rectangular box.

“Yes. In fact, he’s me.”

“Oh! Hey, sorry.”

“That’s okay – I get that a lot.”

He gave me a furrowed-brow stare before turning the clipboard around and handing over the stylus. “Just sign at the bottom.”

You mean where it says ‘Signature?’ I smiled and signed.

“Great. Here you go.” He gave me the box, a quick nod, a smile, and took off.

Honestly… “Hey, Sugarface, I got a box!” Yeah, that’s the cat’s name. Now you can see why I didn’t make a point of mentioning it before. Wynn’s mom came up with it. Blegh.

Because it was such a small box, I was able to hold it while crutching it back to the kitchen. Pulling out a chair, I lowered myself into it and placed the box on the table, curious. No return address. No location stamp. What the heck?

The cat had jumped onto the table and was sniffing the anonymous package.

“You done? I may as well open it. I doubt it’s a bomb or anything, unless it’s a really small one designed to blow off one of my fingernails.”

Sug…the cat sat and stared at me.

“Yeah, I know. Lame.” I pried off the tape securing the brown paper, revealing a plain, satiny white box. “Huh.” Having made that astute comment, I opened it.

Inside, with fancy scrollwork engraved on a silver band around its middle, was a green, mother-of-pearl striped…pen? What?

Oh, come on. I know you weren’t on the edge of your stupid seat, unless you somehow failed to notice the title of this book. Anyhow, I thought at first that it was just, I don’t know, a pen. A ballpoint or gel pen. A closer look at the silver band showed me that the scrollwork was actually three letters: a monogram, as my mom would have called it had she been there at the moment. Tarnished a bit, too. Was this thing really old?

I pulled off the cap, and to my astonishment, found a cool-looking golden pointed end with more curly etchings, but these weren’t letters – just curlicues. What the heck?! I picked it up and went to my computer, where I Googled a description. What came up was a screen with photos of other similar items, and articles about what this thing was – you guessed it:

A fountain pen.

Imprint

Publication Date: 06-18-2017

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
Dedicated to anyone who grew up using Sheaffer pens in school, and who knows how to write longhand.