Part 1

They say a pen in the hands of the right person can cause revolutions. Just ask Voltaire's quill that wrote, "To hold a pen is to be at war." Or ask Rousseau's boned ink and goose feather quill that laboured on The Social Contract, laying the framework for a just society. 

 But this isn't a story about a revolution in words or about a gallant writing implement that weathered the sludge-filled trenches of World War II or proudly stood in pockets through civil upheavals held in squares and quadrangles with tanks in attendance. This is the story of me, a pen with a legacy in the hands of a new-age nihilistic poet, who believed that good writing should never be adulterated by the literature that is in existence. Isolation from the classics was important to create and mould a personal language and method of self expression.

 Our bonfire reveries were fuelled not by oil but by Dostoevsky, Dickens and Twain.

Part 2

Kill the whore of knowledge,

Blast your minds,

Splatter your soul,

On the canvas called life.

This was the new haiku masterpiece of Veelam ex Pierre from the collection An Orgasmic Examination of the Vulvanic Soul. It was recently published in The Arabian Monthly, India's answer to Harper's Magazine. The editor of the magazine was here right now for an interview, before the publication of Pierre's masterpiece poem, a poem that was said to have explained everything in the world in only three words. It was being touted as 'World in 3 words'. 

"Hi, Veelam! I'm Ambuj, the editor of Arabian. It is India's largest freely circulated social, political and artistic publication, with less than ten pages per edition. Before we begin, can you please sign our copy of Phallus Dominatus."

"Yea sure...wait let me take out my pen," Pierre said nonchalantly as he took hold of me with his callous hands. He hadn't written one word of Dominatus himself, but there was no shame in his eyes as he handcrafted a hollow symbol of authorship with a pen he didn't deserve.

"I only use this pen to write on my books," Pierre said this with a cough. 

Ambuj was a fat, Bengali man in his early forties, who had given up on his body. He ate like a pig and like clockwork never missed a meal. The only other thing he liked other than food was poetry. I could see he was excited about Pierre's groundbreaking poem but what charmed him even more was me. He couldn't take his eyes off me. After an uncomfortable two minutes of silence, during which time Ambuj salivated openly, Pierre decided to break the awkwardness, "Yeah she is a beauty."

Idiot…doesn't even know that pens are always male, just like quills. 

"May I?" asked Ambuj with greed.

Why don't you just take a picture. It'll last longer. 

"May you what? asked Pierre suspiciously.

"May I take your pen for a sexy swirl," Ambuj said with a degree of lasciviousness unbecoming for a middle-aged man.

 "You may give it a go," Pierre replied, "But you have to be careful. Don't drop it."

Pierre hadn't yet finished his warning, but Ambuj already had me in his hand. His face now seemed to have an evil glint that villains in movies have when their faux resolution of intention is fulfilled. He put me in light's way and examined my intricate 800-year-old carvings. My past, the answer to my secret past, lay in the carvings.

 Ambuj was now staring at my nib, it was a self-generating, wood-fused metal nib and said, "How often do you change the nib?"

This fat man knew something.

This question seemed to hit Pierre, who angrily replied, "I don't know. Once in two months. So why don't we begin the interview."

Taking no notice of Pierre, Ambuj hesitatingly asked, "Could I take this down to the Calligraphy Museum? I'm sure they'd like to see it there."

This man was here to steal me. What a thrill! I don't want to boast or anything, but someone should write a story about me.