Vanished

I do not know the time or date when I was first misplaced, but I know where creativity occurs is my home— this is not it. The place of creativity is bright most of the day and dark at night. This place is only dark but not completely dark. I can observe the palace of creativity through a gap wide enough to slide through. If I had a voice, I would have called out or screamed; if I could independently move, I would have returned where I belong– but I have neither. Though I started counting the passage of time, the days and nights bled together. Every day, my hope of retrieval diminished until only my memories of the time before and the chill of this resting place remained.

I yearned to feel the warmth of the creator’s hands again. She had once called me her perfect weapon, Excaliber, the tool with which she executed her will. I needed to hear her thoughts through our unique bond as she spilled them across the page. What am I without her? Am I just another tool forsaken? I have lost my purpose; I curse the momentum and gravity that took me from her! Her last question echoes through me, “Where did it go?” At first, she looked for me but could not discern me. How she must have thought I disappeared into thin air. As time passed, she stopped looking.

I lay for an imperceivable amount of time; I could hear the creator speaking to others, the flutter of pages, and the scratch of another like me, how I hated my replacement, even without knowing anything about them. I was familiar with the proper word, jealousy; she had once written it in a journal concerning a friend’s relationship with another friend. She had self-identified as jealous. I begged her, attempting to will my thoughts through our unique bond, but it did not work. The creator did not hear me; no one came to my aid. I gave up.

As I gave up hope and lay forlorn upon the rug in the place of darkness, I watched as shadows crossed the slip of light. They would always come and go, not lingering more than a passing step. Then, outside of the pattern of day and night, a deeper shadow passed over the place of darkness. As my attention pulled toward the darkness, I began to notice features; it was a face, more precisely, a pair of eyes. They were eyes like the creator’s but smaller and in a different hue. The creature shared many similar features, and I knew the word: this was a child.

The child first attempted to slide its fingers beneath the shelf into the crevice I lay in. They came within, touching me, but could not grasp or knock me into a better position. The child tried many times, but it was to no avail. In the back of my mind, hope began to take root. But, with each failure to recover me, my spirits descended again. The creator certainly couldn't if this child was too large to retrieve me. Eventually, the child gave up and retreated, leaving the light to permeate the gap again. It seemed like the end of its attempts.

For a while, I settled back into despair, falling into old habits of listening to the shuffling outside and the creator's work. I eagerly waited for glimpses of the creator, but after another immeasurable amount of time, the child must not have forgotten about me, for it returned with something that looked like a long green stick. It was a rod thin enough to slip between the shelf and the floor. But I dared not get my hopes up this time. Just because the child had a tool didn’t mean it would retrieve me without finesse.

The child began sweeping the rod from side to side with her tongue between her teeth. It took a few tries, but the green tube eventually knocked me right. I skittered out from beneath the shelf, rolling toward the girl, who picked me up and danced around like she had won a prize. I felt warm again as her youthful energy flowed through me.

Climbing onto the oversized desk chair, the child yanked off my cap and began scribbling. Her marks were rudimentary and more aggressive than I was used to, but I managed to forge a connection with her; I learned her name how she drew shapes and lines, and gained insight on how she saw the world around her. I obeyed her gladly, conveying the sincerity of my gratitude.

Though I might get back to my original creator, I am content. I live in the girl’s pocket, passing the days as she colors with me and doodles her little pictures. I am fond of this new creator and hope someday to become as meaningful to her as I was to my previous one. This is not the wrong position for a humble ballpoint pen.