The Unusual Event (Short Story)

The Unusual Event (Ballpoint)

This is a story about an unusual event. The story begins in New York City. The night had just chased away the day, and settled in. There was a young writer who sat at a table composing new lines. This was his daily routine. All his waking, fleeting moments; he spent practicing his art. He felt as though, he was destined to spend his life in an unknown land. Those worlds that he drew in his mind, encompassed his entire being. There were times he felt life made no sense, and he was chasing a fruitless dream.

The fact that he had not achieved recognition could have severed his hope; instead his personal obscurity (in relation to the world of authors), was a catalyst for him to endeavor to achieve a sense of recognition. He wrote short stories about the anomalies of everyday circumstances. He proposed prose about people who attained second chances, and overcame personal struggle. He had drafted novels about imaginary place filled with strange new faces. The form of writing that really entreated his heart and art; and never retreated was: Poetry.

Metered verse would flow from his mind constantly. He endlessly dreamt of rhyme, and his notebooks were filled with line after line. Poetry remained his first love, and if he wasn`t writing or composing, he would usually be reading.

His personal motto was: “Follow the past, to make your present words last”. The great poets made him feel complete. Their art and ability was his daily inspiration to press forward. Quite often, he would imagine: sitting in their company, and staring over their shoulders, as they drafted their various masterpieces. He felt if: he could view and read enough other poetic works; perhaps his own words could earn a sparkle, a glimmer, of his (vastly superior) predecessor’s genius luster.

Writing had initially never been a goal as a career, but merely a hobby. This mild practice had humble roots in his younger years. Growing up he would write verses and short plays. His first inspirations were: The Tempest, which his mother read excerpts from him when he had learned his ABC`s (He wouldn`t read the play himself till years later); also B.I.G., Big Pun, and Rakim (His brother and sister played music non-stop); and finally Harry Potter: And The Philosophers Stone, given to him by, Mrs. Warkin (a schoolteacher, who told him it would prevent him from being a muggle).

He always thought about the day he told his parents, in his youthful ignorance, “One day, I`ll be greater than Shakespeare”! He matured, and he realized the complete and utter folly in the statement; but at least then he still had hope...

At eighteen the writer, joined the Navy and travelled. He would experience new cultures, gain new points of views, and learn from those with different experiences then himself. He also met other people who were legitimate writers and poets. He saw how much he trailed behind others in his hobby, and craft. Up until that point in his life, he thought, he was doing well in moving towards his dream of becoming a writer; but when he looked at his illegible marble notebooks he realized: he was just a child with a crayon. He threw the notebooks off the aft deck of the ship. He stared out at the moon, and felt the wind blowing; then he looked up at the moon, and swore to himself: no matter what it took, he would dedicate himself to becoming a first-rate writer.

He completed his service and returned to what was his present purpose. The first step he thought; would be to enroll in college. He attended school, and exceled in English. He failed at moving forward in any other subject, because he devoted no time to the other subjects. He was consumed by drafting, free-writing, prose, and poetry. He would skip almost every other class to go and develop stories, or write poems. If he did go to other classes: he would free-write about new books he read or authors he found interesting, while paying no attention to things like Math or Spanish. He ended up academically dismissed, and this left him depressed and remiss.

He also started to feel: all his creations (that he thought were clever or witty) had been done before (and done better). Every new story and poem felt like a drop in the ocean of cliché. He tried to be brave and expose his work to others, hoping to evoke a sense of joy in them (and to perhaps reach a larger audience). He took his art very seriously (even though his personality was that of a joker). Despite his resolute dedication to his art; no one seemed to take him seriously, (he felt that: even worse, no one really cared).Thankfully he had a few close friend who stood by him and thought his work was inspiring at best, and pleasurable to read at least.  

Like most writers (and readers); he had a mental back and forth with the “voice inside his head”. This mental discussion, plus the words that always tried to escape the confines of his subconscious; lead to him muttering to himself in public. Many times tourists would pass by and stare at him as if he were crazy, the true blue New Yorkers knew better, and just acted like he didn`t exist. This habit did not add friends to his diminishing social group. It only amplified his eccentricity.

Spending your time lost in words is not always conducive to making or keeping friends. Slowly, even those close to him; began to cast him off. He assumed it was strange to be around someone who spent all their time lost on a piece of paper. It was probably strange to go to a bar with a guy who carries a notebook everywhere. Prior to this evening he spent the majority of his time using a pen to talk to his books, and listening to what authors had to tell him through their words.  

He thought about how he arrived at the restaurant on the night of this unusual event: He was a hard worker, but had been out of work. He had decided that moving boxes, took away from the chances of him becoming a writer. The goal (of becoming a writer) sounded simple at first, but the lack of a diploma, made him laughable to most companies which hired writers. His sometimes medicated controlled, sometimes not medicated uncontrolled ADD and depression, left his motivation in a state of constant flux. His social anxiety, which was easy to overcome after four or five pints of Guinness or a couple shots of whiskey; was harder to “medicate” during a workday. He really wanted to work in “writing” to any effect, but didn`t know anyone who could help make that dream even mildly a reality. Every morning he looked in the mirror, forced a smile, and said, “Today will be the day I meet someone who will help me get to the next step”. Each successive failure left him feeling more destitute, and less likely to achieve his goal. These things combined led to him becoming increasingly reclusive. He had also become obsessed with creating something new and different.

The table he sat at on this particular evening; would be the where his strange, albeit awesome event would begin. While he sat at the table free writing, he stopped often to observe the world. He always loved watching other people and it usually was the source of great inspiration and happiness, just to be around others. On this occasion his mood was very much the antonym of the above described. It wasn`t as though he had never experienced the same joys. In the past he would play basketball with his friends, he also had a couple loves who had come and gone. He used to visit central park, beaches, museums, and destinations far and near. Often when he felt how he felt this night, he would close his eyes and picture himself in those past activities.

He could mentally perceive and re-live those distant memories, as if he was experiencing then for the first time (since he had a very vivid imagination). He could smell the fresh green grass, see the strokes on a particular piece of artwork, feel the cool beach air, and remember the texture of park benches were he spent time with friends blissfully lost. He would open his retinas again, and instead of seeing just paper and pen, or feeling alone; he felt like he had just returned from a night out, or saw a doorway leading to new possibilities between the lines of loose-leaf… all he needed was the key – the Pen.

He sat at the table on the night of the unusual event, drinking a coffee. The coffee cost him a dollar, and represented half of what money he had in his pocket at the time. The restaurant buzzed with liveliness. There were people buying food, enjoying friendship and company, and others outside passing by on their way to their own destinations. He cried out silently with his pen into the book, “What can I do? I feel like I`ll never achieve what I desire. I need some sort of hope.” The page stared blankly back at him. He sighed deep, and closed the book. “Thanks for nothing” he said aloud to the book. A lady with two children, pulled them in close as she stood on line waiting for food, and gave him a dirty look. “Of course” he thought to himself, and got up, took his coffee and left the fast food restaurant. He walked for a couple blocks and thought about an awesome poem that was about a dragon; and he lit a cigarette. He had gone about two blocks, and decided to just sit on a stoop on twenty-fifth street.

Not many people were walking past where he was sitting, and he opened his book again to write. He started at the pages for a moment, and thought about everything that was on his chest. He placed the pen on the paper and wrote out “I know my life could be worse, and I know it`s wrong to complain; but seriously: Please help me or I`ll never write again, I`ll bring my life to an end.”. There was no response, as he expected, but not as he had hoped for. He wrote once more, as his eyes began swelling with tears, “Fine, it was really nice to know you. Maybe if I actually kill myself someone will notice these words…”, then he threw the book, and threw his pen.

“Oww!” he heard a voice shout.

The writer jumped at the sound of the voice. He looked around, but saw no one; still he responded by asking “Who was that”?

“Down here!” the voice said.

He thought for a moment, “I must have had too much coffee tonight, or I`ve finally gone nuts”. His wild imagination flared up, as he stared at his notebook. The writer shook his head in disbelief and rubbed his eyes. “I must be crazy to think my book is talking to me” he thought as he picked it up. Nervously, he examined it in his hand.

“You`re right.” the voice said again.

The writer didn`t notice a group of girls approaching and yelled, “Okay seriously who`s there?”, as the group of young girls passed by. The girls laughed and giggled among themselves as they passed by. He tried to look as inconspicuous as one can after screaming that aloud, on a fairly empty New York City street.

“Is that you talking to me?” he asked the notebook, after the girls passed. The notebook didn`t respond, as the writer composed himself. No sooner had he relaxed, when the voice spoke again.

“Down here by the curb.” said the voice.

The writer instinctively looked at the curb. All he saw was his ball point pen, laying idly. He began laughing, as he picked it up and thought to himself “There`s no way…”

“Yes there is, and I can hear everything you thinking. How do you think this has worked all this time?” the Pen asked. The writer tossed the pen from his hand, as if the pen was the contagious, or covered in poison. “Oww!” the pen yelled as it hit the ground, “Seriously dude, first you throw me now you toss me away? I can forgive all the things you did, when you didn`t know I talked: like scratch your back with, or chew me… but jeez have some respect bro!” the Pen demanded.

The writer placed his notebook down. The man felt both speechless, and thoughtless for the first time ever, so the pen spoke again after a few seconds of silence.

“I know you find it unbelievable that I talk, and I`m sure you`ll have a bunch of questions; but frankly, I find it unbelievable that you DON`T believe this.” So spoke the Pen. “By the way , take your time picking me up. I just love it down here on the curb” The Pen said, in a sarcastic tone.

Despite the strangeness of the entire event, the writer accepted things for what they were. A few minutes before he was ready to jump in front of a car, now he had met someone (or something) new. He did his best to proceed from then on in a logical manner.

The writer picked up the pen again, and said, “I`m sorry I thought I was losing it, I just never imagined…”

“… You never imagined? Look at the pages we`ve written together, how can you find this hard to imagine?” The pen asked.

“Good point!” the writer said. He also realized he wasn`t being very courteous; “So what do I call you?” the writer asked timidly?

“That`s simple, just call me Ballpoint.” Ballpoint said.

“Are you the first talking pen” the writer asked Ballpoint?

“Of course not! It`s just most of us choose to stay silent. Imagine the chaos if people found out we could talk!” Ballpoint said plainly. “Everyone would want one of us and demand that we do their work for them.” Ballpoint continued.

The writer blurted out the first thought that came to his mind: “So why now? Why did you wait until now to speak with me?” the writer queried.

“Well first off, you`ve never thrown me before; and secondly I could tell you were getting pretty desperate. Not to mention I think we can both help each other.” Ballpoint explained.

The writer was quiet again but not for lack of thoughts. In fact there were too many racing through his head, for him to even begin thinking about what to ask first.

“Start with what do you mean we can help each other?” Ballpoint told him.

“O, I forgot you’re in my head!” the writer said, “Yea, umm what do you mean we can help each other?”

“Okay, so here`s the deal: I`ll be you’re friend and help develop stories with you, but you have to promise that you`ll write a story about me.” Ballpoint explained?

“Why the hell would a talking pen want a story written about himself” The writer thought again, and no sooner than he had thought it, Ballpoint chimed in.

“First of all I think I`m pretty awesome! Second for the same reason you write stories: to provide a little break from reality and some hope for others. You want to inspire people to write or make them feel good, laugh or something like that… I want to inspire people to realize that pens have feelings too! That’s my hope, maybe next time someone thinks about throwing a pen or slamming it down, or leaving it in a sewer… Happened to my cousin, Bic… Maybe after reading my story they won`t, they`ll think twice. Hopefully they`ll realize even though we are tools, that doesn`t mean they have to treat us like the stuff on the curb you nearly threw me in.” Ballpoint explained.

“I got it.” The writer said, “But…”

“Just start like you always do, pick up the book and put me on the page. I promise you`ll never feel hopeless, lonely, or unoriginal again.” Ballpoint explained. The writer nodded, picked up his book again, and somehow knew what Ballpoint said was true. He sat back on the stoop (feeling re-invigorated), lit a cigarette, looked at Ballpoint, smiled, and began writing: “This is a story about an unusual event”.  

Composed By: Andrew Drucker