The Pen of Fate

Can we write fate?

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Julian Leong loved the thrill of unearthing treasures. He enjoyed nothing more than to comb through the flea market that took place weekly near his home for out-of-the-box knick-knacks.

Walking through it that day, he came across an antique fountain pen—ornate, well-chiseled, and rare. He couldn't wait to add it to his collection. Julian ran his fingers along the ornate silver engravings—they seemed to shift, metallic forms subtly rearranging themselves.

This pen, though, was a little odd. It felt colder than it should have—as if it had been waiting for him. And on its side was a strange inscription: "So it is written, so it must be done."

Intrigued, Julian paid for it, slipped it carefully into his rucksack, and made his way home. The day had borne fruit.

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Julian couldn't wait to put his new toy to the test. He used the pen to make a series of small predictions, all of which came true. His obsession with it grew—he crafted scenes of power, wealth, and revenge—and each became a reality.

In a drunken stupor one night, he crafted a character's gruesome death, laughing at his cruelty. The headlines in the morning newspaper cut across the page like the dagger he had created: "Man dies of fatal stab wounds"—the exact crime scene he had crafted with diabolical relish. The name of the victim? The one he had used. Fate wasn't merely following his script—it was devouring him.

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In a panic, Julian tried to destroy the pen, but it wouldn't come apart. Instead, he found his hand moving on its own. His fingers curled haphazardly, and his bones folded like malleable pieces of paper. The pen began to write on its own, spelling his name with a sickening flourish.

Julian Leong.

It penned a final sentence: "Julian Leong's last line on paper will be his."

His hand convulsed, his fingers snapping like brittle twigs as he fought vainly against it. The pen dragged itself across his flesh—his final words.

You're mine.

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Finding the door to Julian's apartment open the next morning, his landlord wandered in. He found Julian in a pool of ink—but there was no pen. There was no blood. No signs of a struggle. Just Julian, bathing in an ominous black pool. The pen? It was gone, somewhere, waiting for its next victim to find it.

The novelist's manuscript lay open, the pages blank, except for his name, written in dripping black.

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Weeks later, the pen made a fresh appearance at a thrift shop, its polished form glinting under fluorescent lights. Though an antique, it basked with a new glow, fresh and enticing.

Gleaming. Innocent. All too pristine.

The perfect story-writing partner. One that would keep eyes glued to the page.

It was patient, waiting for someone it knew would pick it.

And someone did. Another novelist reached for it, her eyes gleaming with torrid fascination. The inkwell was dry, though her story was not.

A story waiting to be written—if she could find the words.

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This work is entirely original. The presence of AI tags is coincidental.