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My fountain pen shines silver but it does not really have a colour as it always reflects its surroundings. Right now, as the sunday morning light shines upon it, it glimmers golden with a hint of pink and grey as it reflects my face, my writing hands and my grey jumper.

My fountain pen is already quite old. I got it from my dad when I was ten years old for Christmas. He handed me a parcel wrapped in Christmas paper. In his usual serious manner he simply said “ For your writing. “ Then he actually smiled what he doesn’t do very often and handed me the parcel which contained a black rectangular box that looked expensive.

Back then the fountain pen was so shiny, it captured all the sparkle of the Christmas tree. A golden glow, a green glimmer, a red and silver sparkle. It glittered in purple and white. It was beautiful and bright. Now, it got some scratches and does not shine so brilliant anymore. I think this is good because it means I used it a lot.

When you open it, there is a black part and then there is the head of the fountain pen, the metal nib, the part you write with. This part still shines bright and brilliant like on the first day. There is some blue dried ink on it that makes it look alive as if the blue ink was its dark blood giving it a purpose. When you look very closely you can see an intricate engraving on the metal nib. Together with the blue ink it looks like waves building up from big to small towards the tip where you then press down onto the paper and start writing.

What was that? I was about to leave my apartment and there on the floor was a fountain pen. It caught my eyes‘ attention within a blink of a moment, a silver glimmer on the floor and a second later I realised there it was, just lying there. I picked up the silver shining fountain pen. It was very cool to the touch of my hands. It caught the reflections of the light in the corridor and made it shine silver and yellow. I wondered how it came here. It must have fallen out of someone’s pocket or bag. I turned it in my hands. It looked quite expensive. There were some scratches on it so it must be quite old. Whoever it may belong to must miss it dearly. When I opened it there was a click to be heard and the metal nib was revealed which was also silver but shimmered blue due to the ink that was ready to touch on paper. I held it towards the light and looked at it very closely. I could see an intricate engraving within the metal nib. Like spirals or like waves they sparkled through the ink. I took out my notebook and put the tip of the metal nib on a page and started writing my name. The fountain pen ran very smoothly over the paper, the ink not yet dried shone blue and the more I wrote with it the more I liked it. It was a beautiful pen. But it wasn’t mine and someone must miss it. I went down to the reception and showed the receptionist what I found. She was glad I had come down to her because an hour earlier a young man had asked if the house keeper might have found a silver fountain pen. And my thinking found assurance that someone had been looking for it.

The receptionist thanked the student for bringing the silver fountain pen to her. She sat down again and turned the silver fountain pen in her hands. It caught the daylight on its shimmering surface, reflecting blue and white, reflecting the sky and some clouds. It really did look quite beautiful. She opened it and looked at the metal nib that shone silver and blue because of the ink that was inside the pen. She noticed that the young man had not mentioned that, when he was describing it, there were spiral and wave like engravings within the metal nib. As if little waves were moving on it. It reminded her of her childhood home by the sea. This was a long time ago. She started writing her name with the fountain pen and smoothly the metal nib touched the paper and wrote two words in shining dark blue ink: Her first name and her surname. She thought that this really was a very lovely fountain pen. She put it next to the other pens in the office that, if she was honest and looked at them now, they appeared quite average next to this fountain pen.

He was standing on the edge of a fire breathing volcano. Right there was a huge lava stream glowing deep orange and yellow. If he would take another three steps he would dissolve become one with this fiery stream of the inside of the earth. He held his silver fountain pen in his right hand. It glimmered red and golden, reflecting the deadly stream below. Constantly moving, the reflection changed every second. It made the silver fountain pen look so alive in this dead place. It felt so warm, so full of life in his hand, almost as if the volcano had transformed it into an actual living being. It was the heat radiating from the stream and his warm hand heating it up.

He opened it, opened his notebook in his left hand and started writing. He had changed the ink from dark blue to scarlet red and now it seemed as if the fountain pen would be breathing fire, writing fire. The intricate engravings that used to seem like waves on a stormy sea now appeared as waves on fire in a burning thunder storm. He was writing faster and faster, captured by heated inspiration he received from the flowing lava. The fountain pen’s red ink covered the pages of the notebook in fiery ink like a dragon flying, burning a line on a white flat landscape. He turned page and page full with writing, he didn’t have to wait until one page was dry, as the glowing heat of their surroundings dried the red ink once it touched the paper. Suddenly, he closed the notebook. He had finished his thoughts, closed the fountain pen and looked at its reflecting red pulsating surface. Like a heart with its own heartbeat. He put the little heart back into his pocket turned around and walked back to the camp.

He was standing by the edge of the boat with his fountain pen. Writing quickly, phrase after phrase into his notebook, filled with dark blue words. The waves towered high, nearly as tall as the boat itself. There was a storm coming but he did not care he had to write down this story. Dark clouds were gathering, illuminated by the pulsating heat of the volcano in the distance. It erupted just when they got on the boat. The earth moved like there was no other force. Infinite was the power that broke the volcano and turned it into fire and storm.  Now flames and ashes rolled over the island of the volcano. Molten stones glowed against the black earth, lava rivers streamed down crashing into the ocean. Like a dragon’s throat breathing into a stormy sea. Unbending, unforgiving, breaking up the earth like a man could crush an insect. He was writing it all down with his silver fountain pen. Its reflecting surface capturing everything around it. The dark clouds that glowed red the closer they moved to the island, the black water, rising and sinking waves next to them. A deep ocean woken by fire and earth, her sister elements playing with everything mortal around it. Then his hands moved over the notebook and in an inattentive moment, just a second, the fountain pen fell out of his hands into the salty sea. He looked over the boat, saw it, a silver lining just there for one blink of the eye, bleeding out all its dark ink into the ocean which was seen by no one as darkness embraced the fountain pen and its blood. A wave crushed over the fountain pen and its silver surface darkened, for there was only the mighty shadow of the unforgivable sea consuming it.

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