Fountain Pen

Authors note

This is my first pasta, please be gentle.

The pasta

‘B-, you can do better.’ He scribbled on the paper. He shook his head; this was the third time in a month that this student had performed like this. It pained him to see his student waste such potential. If only they would study harder. They were lazy. All of them.

He continued grading papers. He was writing quickly, in red ink, as teachers tend to do. He used a beautiful fountain pen. Black body with golden trims and a point made of gold with little decorations carved in it. When he was done grading a paper, he noticed the pen was drained of all ink. He looked at his pen in confusion. Didn’t he just refill his pen? He sighed and shook his head. Time to refill it then.

He got up from his desk in his study. His father was a writer before he died; a successful one, because he never had to worry about money. His job at the local school was more of a hobby. When he walked past his parents old bedroom, he couldn’t help but shiver. The room had always scared him as a kid. It still did. As he walked down the stairs into the dark hallway, he noticed how dark it was outside. He thought he could see something walking out there, but quickly brushed it off as his own imagination. He was so lost in thought he forgot where he was headed. Oh, that’s right, he was going to refill his pen. He quickly grabbed the keys he needed from the bowl in the hallway and walked to out of the house, to the enormous backyard. Where it was once beautiful, now it had fallen into disrepair. The man never really cared for gardening. Again he thought he saw something slipping past a tree. And again he swiftly blamed his imagination. He quickly unlocked the basement door and went in. It was colder inside than one would expect. He walked down the wooden steps into the basement. It was dark in the basement. He could hear someone breathing heavily. He flicked on the light switch. In his basement, suspended by some chains, hung a woman. Completely naked. All over her body the scars of a thousand needle pricks could be seen. “Good evening, Amanda!” the man said cheerfully. “It’s time to refill my pen.”