The Pen

“Dearly begathered: we are gathered here today to celebrate the gathering of letters by an illustrious pen into superb wordplay and emotional wordings. Much to the disappointment of our civilization, writing implements rarely got their due credit fot the morphing of emotion into words. Today, we make a stand behind this very stand to give value to the exhuberance of an implement’s bodily fuilds that turned mere thoughts into emotional punches. We celebrate the contribution and fluidity with which this pen so selflessly furthered our understanding of ourselves. We pay homage to all the pens before him whom recieved no praise for what they’d had a big hand in accomplishing. It is with great pleasure that I introduce our speakers at this illustrious evening, thanking them for their acceptance and contribution.
“Firstly, we have the Minister for Culture: Kimi Kamilion, who helped in organising this fine evening and whom created this very special award for a very special device.”
There was the requitted clapping as Kimi Kamilion made her way to the podium. She stood behind it and nodded at the assembly.
“The curse of man is that words only appear inside his mind. They are trapped; travelling along neurological pathways, from one end toward the other, holding with them packages that will be voiced toward recepient ears which will send them to be dismanteled neurologically in the brain. There would be no great scheme of things if we hadn’t discovered how to assign drawings to words. We would still be lonely skulls, reverberating with our own internal voices and stagnating into a short termed social order. All the revolutions throughtout history – that we know about; through books and digital mediums by the way – have been led by the spread on information, their disection and by being studied.
“When I set out to write this speech, I hoped it would do justice to this prestigious Pen which has given us rivers of tears and gorges of pain. I hoped that it would be as easy to paint the words out of my head unto this blank page as it is for the pen to emit its volumous discourse. It has not been easy – Im not a pen after all – but I have addressed my gratitude to the celebrated Pen as best as I could do.
“But again, how do you exalt a pen? How do you express what an implement has sealed the door on expressing through the force of sheer worded might? The only way we thought of to kick start this path of admiration is by presenting an award with the hope of creating a precedent for future exaltation. Hopefully this award will open the seal of acclaim to many many more instruments.”

“Thank you Kimi Kamilion for your wonder full words. We are graced now by a man who needs no introduction. Please welcome him.”
There was clapping. Throats were cleared, including the speaker’s.
“I have not written a speech out of respect for the now illustrated Pen; I have instead chosen to type and print it and so have I done.
“Pens have always been marginalised for long. For as long as there had been inked writing, pens have been used and drained of their bodily secretions to do the bidding of a writer. They have been enslaved, thrown away and crammed in dark places and no one raised a voice, neither in support nor in call for action. This award today and our begatherment are the ways we choose to attone for our enslaving sin and our inexcusable actions. Distinguishing a Pen like this – now – opens doors and new epochs in the history of writing; it illicits awe and creates new sentiments that will flow through the ages – future and past – and resonate into our hearts the love of implements. When contemperary readers and future generations look at our achievement today, they will no longer fall victim to negative thought or apathetic dismissal towards untapped greatness of devices and instead will allow for florish to expound on its trapped emotion and give us an unvisited dimension in which we will be able to escape from our daily tomb of civilization.”
No thank you was heard over the applause.

“I would like to also thank Habitol, the writer and user of the Pen for attending.”

In Right Light

In the last curling hours of night, as darkness receded into the folds of itself in anticipation of the cold touch of morning, the baker rose from his wife’s side and strode into the smothering night.
The ghosts of night clicked, shot and creaked themselves in response to the invisible life hidden in the cover of dark. Invisible, hidden life.
A splash of water softened the warmth of sleep off the baker’s face and tethered him to wakefulness; to mindfulness. Awaking him mid-dream, the water called its siren song so the baker could leave the world of Morpheus and rejoin the dismal living. Alert – his mind aware of the clanking and squeeking of the end of nightfall – the baker returned to the bedroom and let his gaze fall on his wife’s body. Nineteen years of age; they’ve only celebrated their two years of life together before baker senior closed his bakery for the last time, leaving his son enclosed in the responsibility of maintaining it. Now the village came to him.
He went back to the bathroom. Candle lit, he stared at the face in front of him in the mirror. The wayward eyebrows, the bags under his eyes, the faint pink of an old scar from his days of childish roaming adventures in the forest surrounding the village.
There was still anonimity in it – the scar – a mundane recognition that lent itself to boredom on most days. But at night it was anonimity. We all change into different people in the dark, become hidden – irrevocably inside ourselves. And from it comes not self recognition but a drowning into the self alone.
The baker stared long enough to forget himself in the mirror.
Then he remembered.
And he forgot himself in the reflection.
The dying hours of night were almost done and he wanted coffee as dark as the final hour before sun break.
In the kitchen, the water patiently waited in its pot for the fire to warm it.

The pot bubbled. He loved it when the bubbles bubbled up. Slowly at first, one by one they were released, taking away whatever air they could capture. Then they got angry and the maelstrom begun. Eddies rose and from them vapor and little motes of light dancing above the water and subsiding before they reached the fire below. Against this background, the dancing gathered steam and the motes multiplied. A whirlpool of dancing lights skidded and turned to skid at the other side before rising and joining their sister motes in a spinning radiance.
All the while, the baker watched. Sleep slowly left his eyes, drawn to the motes’ light like moths to a fire. It is good to bask in the light. The stove fire was shadowed by the motes and in a little while was engulfed.
Everything ends in radiance, the baker thought, lit and then forever in darkness.
Even the dark outside would be gone.
Lost between his thoughts and the motes, the baker followed them both outside. there was the whirly luminousness of light, streaming from the kitchen window, playing with the reality surrounding it.
Or maybe it was the morning light finally arriving.
That was the trouble with light; its hard to decide on reality without it.
It swells but when it comes, it’s suddenly in full bloom with exploding colours.
Only for a few hours every day.
In the midst of the motes, the baker flew; not across the sky but in a sudden, slow, vertical assent towards a blue of changing hues. The baker shined over the kingdom of man, seperated from it by the oncoming light and there he was held – a figure just awake.
The day had started and so had the village.