Unappreciated

This story was inspired by the short story "After I was thrown in the river and before I drowned" by Dave Eggers. I found it to be fascinating: I had never considered the world from a dog's point of view, much less imagined a dog's thoughts. Or a pen's thoughts, for that matter. I chose a pen because everyone has a favorite one, but probably never stops to think about what it could be thinking.

Unappreciated: A Piece of 1st Person Narrative

It's near the end of my life, I think to myself as I sit in this pen jar, frantically avoiding detection near all the young pens, so full of life and vivacity and ink. I think about my life.

I change hands so frequently I desperately need to take a bath. They say, “Hey, can I borrow a pen?” and my hand, who I thought I was really connecting with, just passes me over like it was nothing. This happens all the time.

I was born in a package, with my sisters and brothers, waiting to scribble on virgin paper and even virgin skin, free of ink and blots and stains. What no one mentions is that people treat you like you don't matter, all the time.

No one ever says, “That's Annie, or Bill.” No, they say, “That's my favorite pen.” Like we don't have feelings, or attachments at all. Like we don't even exist except as a way for them to write down that phone number or those very important directions to a friend's house.

And then, even though they already don't acknowledge us as equals, they have the audacity to lose us! I've been left in cars, trains, behind beds, between seat cushions, only to be discovered in an hour of frantic need. I have been thrust into the air triumphantly, but only to hear: “I found a pen, now what was that last thing again?” No “thank you” or “what a relief you're there for me”! Never any credit given to me, the pen who deserves it most.

The worst place I have ever been left was the floor. Feet trodding on me, then rolling me clear across the tiles or wooden boards. Sometimes, I purposely roll under their feet, just to make them notice me and pick me up and put me where I belong, in a pen jar or on a table, waiting to be used.

At least I'm not a pencil: They get sharpened, growing shorter with use until they are thrown out. When you're a pen like me, your best bet is to hide behind the others when your ink supply is exhausted.

And right now, I am out of ink.

Out of ink. The three most dreaded words in a pen's vocabulary. Which is why my life span is nearing its end.

A hand reaches into my jar now, fishing around, and picks me.

It's all I can do to shake out a few last drops, to save myself from the trashcan. It almost works too, but not quite. My last efforts are not enough; this hand just has too much to write.

The next thing I know I am sailing through the air, only to miss and land on the floor. I hear the thrower call out, “Madison, go pick up that pen, will you? It needs to go into the trash!”

Madison yells back, “Mooom, I'm busy!”

I decide I love Madison in that instant.

I roll into a crevice, protecting myself from the rooting hand above my head. The hand gives up, leaves me for dead, although I am the furthest thing from it.

That's another thing no one mentions about being a pen: Because you get left in so many weird places, you have a lot of time to think about your life, ponder it, study it, and come to conclusions.

What I have realized is that everyone feels unappreciated, me more so. The hands holding me to write in journals always mention feeling lonely, and I long to rip myself from their hands and write by myself, you're never alone if you take the time to look around you, if you take the time to look at the pen in your hand. Even in the weirdest places, I've always been accompanied by dust, rubber bands, old food, dog hair, paper clips, etc. And I've realized that everything exists for a reason: You just have to be able to see beyond a shape and form.