”Last drop of ink,
Fountain pen cap closed…
Sharpening a pencil”
Clear Candy Wrap
Ever wondered what it’s like to open a fresh new fountain pen? My grand father once gave me a knock of but I just treasured it like how it was told to me, the same saying goes and I am certain you have heard it. “The pen lil Bub, is mightier than the sword”
To this day that pen followed where I go, grandpas words echoing in my ear, like a magical wand it was. I visualized the moment I would chew off that clear candy wrap and twist that locking cap. But for 10 years in a decade, it stayed wrapped, invisible lines of embossing on clear white bedroom walls. Didn’t have a single clue then what the fountain pen was, just a mere childhood toy filled with possibilities. It’s flown across the kitchen table, a trooper parachuted from the second floor stairwell. You name it, it’s been through it all, yet that clear Candy wrap remained…
First Stroke
“What was the number sorry, could you wait a second let me look for a pen, hang on” Yes clumsy as I may be or just outright young and naive, why of course a house filled with pens but not one behind the drawers. I mean I must have left it in school I don’t know, things go missing, you just don’t really think of needing it until you actually needed it. Like that scene when Tom Cruise and his stunt double Ben Stiller “Finished off each others sentences” I couldn’t understand what the doctor from the hospital was saying, I wrote the condition with the first stroke of my fountain pen. Candy wrap torn from all corners in desperation. Mother read my scribbles. “His first stroke, I am sorry”
Grand pa past away….
Blue ink steady
You go about your day, time passes like the wind. We always look at the past, primary school is so easy wait till you get into high school. And then history repeats itself, ugh uni, what can I say you learn your pies and you will know how to cook it and for specifically how long. The equations become more than just a stroke, Jesus the blue ink ran out fast in thesis. All them blue prints figuratively speaking came from the blue ink, like drawing juice from a horseshoe crab.
Each line meaningful, each mark precise, each stroke beauty and each splash a masterpiece….
Red ink
Daily grind, how unintelligible can ones start to a week ever be, 5 days a week, 48 weeks a year. No I must push on, life, commitments, responsibilities. A quest of paperwork unfolds, like the countless loggings in the forest, forever a page is made. Oh the anger, the frustration, the ever so anxiety of the Monday to come. Deadlines ringing like the sirens from the old RAAF building with the faulty alarms.
Black ink trailing
Yes you know they got the message, there are those you treasure so deeply. No matter where you go, but there is just that one black apple that keeps the black ink trailing. Where it’s a cheating partner, or a bully at work. There is always that murder of crows lining the fence in sunset, like the final drips trailing this cherished knock off yet priceless novelty I hold in my hand. But I must write this, it’s so ever important I get the message across. Doesn’t matter if it piece together a sentence for thought. Doesn’t matter if it holds an agenda greater than Christopher Columbus sailing across the oceans. It’s set in stone, it dries out a clear line between good and evil, but the bad apple goes up the branches, oh it’s in the roots….
No ink
I’ve run it dry, like the grooves I made as a kid on those white empty walls. Battle ridden object, scattered gilt of gold, unraveling that ugly brown handle. I did say it was a knock off, but it did what a fountain pen would do, draw the line…
Closed Cap
It’s time to move on, just like yesterday that Haiku I made for a dear friend rings in my ear. He was diagnosed with cancer, a prominent and caring leader for an organization filled with grief. The wounds never healed, the battles never won. The pen with only sponges to show, no fluid trickles. Not a drop. Just like that my battle ends the same way, both path righteous, but failed to sign the deal. Pen Cap Closes….
Sharpening a pencil
2 weeks it’s been felt like a century, didn’t think retirement meant you actually have to do nothing. Haha. Now where is that pen? Oh yes I threw it along with the rest of the rubbish. No need for fake symbols in my life, you only live once. So what if I didn’t get that contract, what good is it without ink? This beautiful vision, beautiful open terrace, panoramic views of limitless windows, white sandy beach and the calm blue lagoons. Palms flutter with an occasional thud of Gods fruit. What more could I have asked for. Sharpening a pencil….
About the Creator
Li Huang
“YET - when you add yet to the end of a sentence, you completely change the connotation of that sentence
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Lost but Trying
There are moments in life when everything feels lost—not dramatically, not loudly, but quietly. The kind of loss that settles into your bones and makes even simple breathing feel heavy. For Adam, that moment came on an ordinary Tuesday morning when he realized he had nowhere left to go. At twenty-seven, Adam wasn’t supposed to feel this tired. He wasn’t supposed to feel like life had already passed him by. Yet there he was, sitting on the edge of a narrow bed in a rented room, staring at peeling paint on the wall, wondering how everything had gone so wrong. He had once been full of plans. Big ones. Dreams of building something meaningful, of becoming someone his younger self would be proud of. But life, as it often does, had other ideas. Adam grew up in a small town where hope was common but opportunities were rare. His father worked long hours, his mother carried silent strength, and everyone believed that education would be the escape route. Adam believed it too. He studied hard, stayed out of trouble, and dreamed even harder. But dreams don’t always come with instructions. After college, rejection letters became his daily routine. Job interviews led to polite smiles and empty promises. “We’ll get back to you,” they said. Most never did. Slowly, confidence turned into doubt. Doubt turned into fear. And fear became a constant companion. When his father fell ill, Adam returned home. Medical bills piled up. Savings vanished. Dreams were postponed, then quietly buried. After his father’s death, the house felt too empty, too loud in its silence. Adam left again, this time not chasing dreams, but running from memories. The city welcomed him with indifference. He worked temporary jobs—delivery rider, warehouse helper, night security guard. None lasted long. Each job paid just enough to survive, never enough to grow. Failure followed him like a shadow, whispering reminders of what he hadn’t become. One night, after being laid off yet again, Adam walked aimlessly through the city streets. Neon lights blurred into streaks of color. Laughter spilled out of cafés he couldn’t afford. He felt invisible, like a background character in everyone else’s success story. That night, he considered giving up. Not dramatically. Not with a note or tears. Just a quiet decision to stop trying. To accept that some people were meant to struggle forever. He sat on a bench near a bus stop, head in his hands, when an old man sat beside him. “You look like someone who’s lost,” the man said gently. Adam didn’t reply. The old man continued, “Being lost isn’t the problem. Staying lost is.” Adam finally looked up. The man’s face was lined with age, but his eyes carried a calm confidence, the kind earned through survival. “I’ve tried,” Adam said bitterly. “Nothing works.” The man smiled softly. “Trying doesn’t guarantee success. It guarantees growth.” Adam wanted to argue, but something in the man’s voice stopped him. “I failed more times than I can count,” the old man added. “But each failure taught me something. Most people quit right before life changes.” The bus arrived. The old man stood up. “Don’t stop trying,” he said. “Even slow steps are steps forward.” Then he was gone. Adam sat there long after the bus left. For the first time in months, something shifted inside him—not hope exactly, but curiosity. What if stopping wasn’t the answer? What if trying, even imperfectly, still mattered? The next day, Adam did something small. He updated his resume. It wasn’t impressive, but it was honest. He applied for jobs he felt un for. He watched free online courses at night. He started writing—short thoughts, reflections, anything that helped him release the weight inside. Days turned into weeks. Rejections continued, but so did effort. One evening, Adam posted a short piece of writing online. He didn’t expect much. But comments came in. Strangers resonated with his words. Someone said, “This feels like my life.” Another wrote, “Thank you for putting my feelings into words.” For the first time, Adam felt seen. He kept writing. Months later, he landed a small content job—not glamorous, not permanent—but real. It paid little, but it paid consistently. More importantly, it gave him purpose. Life didn’t magically improve overnight. Problems didn’t disappear. Some days were still heavy. But Adam noticed something new: he no longer felt stuck. Trying had changed him. He learned that progress isn’t loud. It doesn’t announce itself. It arrives quietly, disguised as persistence. He learned that being lost doesn’t mean being broken. Sometimes it simply means you’re between versions of yourself. Years later, Adam would look back on that bench, that night, and that stranger. He would realize that the turning point wasn’t a job or success—it was a decision. A decision to keep trying, even when trying hurt. Because sometimes, the bravest thing you can do isn’t winning. It’s not quitting.
By Inayat khan3 days ago in Motivation
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