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Me & My Pen
By Jerry Race
Friday, March 21, 2003
Although Joe Jamison's father is dead Joe is hanunted by the man.
Me and My Pen
by Jerry Race
“Dear diary,” I muttered as I moved the fountain pen across the blank age. “I’ll be so glad when this year is over. Maybe the new year
will be much better. I sent one of my first short stories to a magazine and this past week I received word that it will be published in that magazine. Wow! My first submission. Of course, I know that won’t always happen. I’ve gotta prepare myself for those blasted rejection slips.”
“Ouch!” A tiny voice yelled. “Hey, Jerry, you jerk!”
I looked around my spacious one room. Of course, I knew I was the only
one in the room and didn’t have any company, but where’d that tiny voice come from? Am I going crazier than I am already?
“Ouch,” the voice yelled again.
The voice came from in front of me. At first I thought my computer was
speaking to me, but it has a much louder voice, especially when it
tells me I have mail. Then my eyes moved down to the ballpoint pen in my right hand.
“You are holding me too tight, you idiot.”
“Oooops, sorry, didn’t realize I was.” So I loosened my grip. “How’s
“Whew! Much better. Now I can breathe.”
“By the way, Jerry,”
“You’ve been writing like its going out of style why dontcha calm down
and give it a rest,” the pen said. “At least give me a rest.”
“Can’t, after I finish this entry in my journal I’ve gotta do my
assignment writing exercises.”
“Go ahead and finish,” the pen said. “Just give me a break once in
“Can’t make any promises. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to continue
on these blasted morning pages. Only have one more page to complete.”
I placed the tip of the pen back on the page and commenced scribbling the rest of the sentence I was writing. “Now you know that everybody dreams. Some dreams are more far fetched than most. My dream, like a lot of (writers,) is to get published more often.”
Half way down the page I felt my hand getting warm or was the warmth coming from the pen? Either way my fingers and the palm of my hand began to get hotter by the second.
“Ouch!” I yelled as the pen became too hot.
“Hee hee,” the pen giggled.
“That’s not funny.”
“Maybe not to you.”
My hand and wrist felt moist. I glanced at my hand. It looked as though my own pen ‘wet’ on my hand. Now ain’t that something?
I dropped the pen. It brushed against my favorite jeans as it fell to
the floor. Now it looks like I have a large blue spot right in the front of my pants. I felt like putting that stupid pen in my food processor and turning it to mush. But if I did that, it would be my luck I wouldn’t be able to get the ink out of the food processor. So I grabbed the pen and tossed it out of my window and over the fire
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