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Description
Bic the Pen wasn't particularly fond of being a pen. He hated every dreadfully long minute of it. Being handled by hands all day long was tiresome and boring, and those hands – Oh, those hands, so sweaty in the afternoon, so cold in the morning, absent entirely for the rest of the day – those hands tormented him the most. He felt trapped by those grotesque, fleshy mandibles, his carefree imagination grounded by the eternal machinations of those hands. And when the hands weren't there, he had to bide his time in a stuffy pocket or a cluttered backpack. At least he had others to chat with in each, but he still loathed it.

He envied Motorola the Cell Phone and Sandisk the Flash Drive because they actually LEFT the perpetual grasp of the hands occasionally, were able to project their souls amongst the radio waves or USB ports. He enjoyed listening to old Motorola's stories of conversations gone awry, of text messages that were cryptic and altogether mysterious, and of the views of earth from an orbiting satellite. Sandisk's tales of digital adventure were just as fascinating, especially when flash games were loaded into her internal memory space; she would go on and on about how she would master every game there while the hands had no use for her, spending her time playing and having fun. Yes, it seemed, Bic lead a sadly slow and monotonous life, nothing to do but wait and write, write and wait.

One day, a Thursday, Bic was once again stuffed into a dreary pocket. The temperature in that polyester receptacle was relatively high, so Bic figured it was nearing the end of the hands' daily routine of walk, sit and write, walk some more and sit and write all over again. He struck up a conversation with Pokéwalker the Pedometer to pass the time. They had spent many an hour trapped in that pocket together, and had become fast friends quite quickly.

"How you doin' Pokéwalker?" Bic asked his round companion.

Pokéwalker only sighed.

"…You alright?" Bic inquired, concern lacing his inky voice.

"I'm just…" Pokéwalker looked down.

"C'mon, spit it out."

Pokéwalker sighed again, then looked up at Bic, evidently sad.

"Fine… I tell you, though it pains me to do so – I envy you, Bic."

"What?"

"The thought's been brewing in my processors for a while now. I really do wish I could be you, Bic, even for just a day – I'd take a minute if that's all I could get."

"But, why? Why would you ever want to be me? All I do is write. Write and write and write…"

"But that's the point."

"… I don't get it," Bic muttered, confused.

"You write. I know no one else has ever told you this, but we all secretly covet your position as a pen, from old Motorola to Sandisk, even Shuffle the iPod has admitted as much to me."

"Why…? I lead such a boring life though…"

Pokéwalker turned and looked directly at Bic. The pen (if he had had legs) took a step back; he could feel energy emanating from his friend, something Bic had never felt before.

"Bic, I want you to listen to me, listen to what I'm about to say here and now."

Bic nodded slowly, realizing Pokéwalker was more sure of himself than ever before.

"You are a pen. You write. The rest of us, we all know what purpose we serve, but that's all we know. I am here to train Pokémon, Motorola exists to transmit messages, Sandisk stores files, and Shuffle plays music. But you, you lucky son of a pencil, you get the most important job of all."

"Go on..."

"You express the hands' imagination. It's that simple. You, at any moment, could become a twelve foot tall man in the future named Simon, and in the next instant be transported to a post-apocalyptic Seattle as a boy named Mark. You could transform into a person who is suspicious of everything and everyone, and then be turned inside out in a far-off world of instantaneous gratification where your unavoidable end is the needle and the pit."

Bic remained silent, though he was beginning to understand what Pokéwalker was getting at. "So, because I express the hands' imagination, I can be anything I want and still remain a pen?"

"Precisely. That's why we all envy you. Sandisk may have her games, but she does get bored with them eventually. Shuffle's music is incredible, but the feeling doesn't last forever. Motorola's time on the air is great, but very rarely do the hands utilize his talents… Maybe YOU should be telling US stories, hmm?"

"Ha ha, yeah."

Bic and Pokéwalker laughed together, then continued their conversation, talking about this and that, never staying on one topic for long. Bic had developed a new respect for both his compatriots and himself; he had decided to never again dislike who or what he was, and HE would be the one telling stories.

When the hands came to retrieve him again, (when it was time for another round of exercising his unique skills) he was smiling for the first time in a long time. He counted the seconds expectantly as the hands, whom he didn't mind all that much anymore, descended to meet their mark with a thud, landing on a semi-wooded desk with a single sheet of paper upon it. Bic examined his surroundings and found that he was in a room that he did not recognize. There was a poster of Poe on the wall, and on the opposite end of the room hung another poster of a football player with his back turned as he sauntered out into a stadium holding his helmet. A circle of desks, in which many pairs of hands sat, ringed a desk in the center; someone had placed an empty jar labeled "Jerome," and a package of cookies on it. The cookies were all screaming "eat me!" Bic smiled. He was glad he was not a cookie.

Then, the magical imagination of the hands kicked in, and Bic was writing again:

"Bic the Pen wasn't particularly fond of being a pen. He hated every dreadfully long minute…"

Description
Bic the Pen wasn't particularly fond of being a pen. He hated every dreadfully long minute of it. Being handled by hands all day long was tiresome and boring, and those hands – Oh, those hands, so sweaty in the afternoon, so cold in the morning, absent entirely for the rest of the day – those hands tormented him the most. He felt trapped by those grotesque, fleshy mandibles, his carefree imagination grounded by the eternal machinations of those hands. And when the hands weren't there, he had to bide his time in a stuffy pocket or a cluttered backpack. At least he had others to chat with in each, but he still loathed it.

He envied Motorola the Cell Phone and Sandisk the Flash Drive because they actually LEFT the perpetual grasp of the hands occasionally, were able to project their souls amongst the radio waves or USB ports. He enjoyed listening to old Motorola's stories of conversations gone awry, of text messages that were cryptic and altogether mysterious, and of the views of earth from an orbiting satellite. Sandisk's tales of digital adventure were just as fascinating, especially when flash games were loaded into her internal memory space; she would go on and on about how she would master every game there while the hands had no use for her, spending her time playing and having fun. Yes, it seemed, Bic lead a sadly slow and monotonous life, nothing to do but wait and write, write and wait.

One day, a Thursday, Bic was once again stuffed into a dreary pocket. The temperature in that polyester receptacle was relatively high, so Bic figured it was nearing the end of the hands' daily routine of walk, sit and write, walk some more and sit and write all over again. He struck up a conversation with Pokéwalker the Pedometer to pass the time. They had spent many an hour trapped in that pocket together, and had become fast friends quite quickly.

"How you doin' Pokéwalker?" Bic asked his round companion.

Pokéwalker only sighed.

"…You alright?" Bic inquired, concern lacing his inky voice.

"I'm just…" Pokéwalker looked down.

"C'mon, spit it out."

Pokéwalker sighed again, then looked up at Bic, evidently sad.

"Fine… I tell you, though it pains me to do so – I envy you, Bic."

"What?"

"The thought's been brewing in my processors for a while now. I really do wish I could be you, Bic, even for just a day – I'd take a minute if that's all I could get."

"But, why? Why would you ever want to be me? All I do is write. Write and write and write…"

"But that's the point."

"… I don't get it," Bic muttered, confused.

"You write. I know no one else has ever told you this, but we all secretly covet your position as a pen, from old Motorola to Sandisk, even Shuffle the iPod has admitted as much to me."

"Why…? I lead such a boring life though…"

Pokéwalker turned and looked directly at Bic. The pen (if he had had legs) took a step back; he could feel energy emanating from his friend, something Bic had never felt before.

"Bic, I want you to listen to me, listen to what I'm about to say here and now."

Bic nodded slowly, realizing Pokéwalker was more sure of himself than ever before.

"You are a pen. You write. The rest of us, we all know what purpose we serve, but that's all we know. I am here to train Pokémon, Motorola exists to transmit messages, Sandisk stores files, and Shuffle plays music. But you, you lucky son of a pencil, you get the most important job of all."

"Go on..."

"You express the hands' imagination. It's that simple. You, at any moment, could become a twelve foot tall man in the future named Simon, and in the next instant be transported to a post-apocalyptic Seattle as a boy named Mark. You could transform into a person who is suspicious of everything and everyone, and then be turned inside out in a far-off world of instantaneous gratification where your unavoidable end is the needle and the pit."

Bic remained silent, though he was beginning to understand what Pokéwalker was getting at. "So, because I express the hands' imagination, I can be anything I want and still remain a pen?"

"Precisely. That's why we all envy you. Sandisk may have her games, but she does get bored with them eventually. Shuffle's music is incredible, but the feeling doesn't last forever. Motorola's time on the air is great, but very rarely do the hands utilize his talents… Maybe YOU should be telling US stories, hmm?"

"Ha ha, yeah."

Bic and Pokéwalker laughed together, then continued their conversation, talking about this and that, never staying on one topic for long. Bic had developed a new respect for both his compatriots and himself; he had decided to never again dislike who or what he was, and HE would be the one telling stories.

When the hands came to retrieve him again, (when it was time for another round of exercising his unique skills) he was smiling for the first time in a long time. He counted the seconds expectantly as the hands, whom he didn't mind all that much anymore, descended to meet their mark with a thud, landing on a semi-wooded desk with a single sheet of paper upon it. Bic examined his surroundings and found that he was in a room that he did not recognize. There was a poster of Poe on the wall, and on the opposite end of the room hung another poster of a football player with his back turned as he sauntered out into a stadium holding his helmet. A circle of desks, in which many pairs of hands sat, ringed a desk in the center; someone had placed an empty jar labeled "Jerome," and a package of cookies on it. The cookies were all screaming "eat me!" Bic smiled. He was glad he was not a cookie.

Then, the magical imagination of the hands kicked in, and Bic was writing again:

"Bic the Pen wasn't particularly fond of being a pen. He hated every dreadfully long minute…"