Writing Her Words

This week's words are: Feather, Misplaced, Useless. Read other 3WW here.

Emily had once misplaced her feather pen. How strange that it showed up in her mailbox, folded inside a big sheet of paper with no return address. Just her own name scribbled across the center. The script was quite elegant making her name seem so important and urgent.

The feather pen was a birthday gift from her late grandfather. It didn't seem like anything Emily would own but when her grandfather passed away, it was the only thing that reminded her of him. In her mind she had thought, "This will be the last gift I will ever receive from him. How sad to think of this." She shook her head and wondered why she did not cherished this gift when he was alive.

She remembered at the time it was quite useless to her. The ink would dry up as she ponders what to write. The feathers, too soft to be hold in any other way but gently. The words she would write gets smear simply because she was too impatient to wait for them to dry. If she's not careful, the ink would drip and seep through the paper and onto her dress. Still, Emily continued to use this pen, learning its gentle ways and eventually learning to love writing with it.

The feather pen seem to have a mind of it's own. With its white feathers and gold tip, it was a wonderful sight as she woke each morning, staring at its beauty. Each day, she couldn't wait to write something with it. She would rush to get dress, put her hair up and eat a simple breakfast. At her desk, she would get the ink out and practice a few strokes before actually writing. It was a temperamental thing, always seemingly runs out of ink just as her thoughts came to her. It would sometimes pour out words she didn't know she could say and words she thought she never knew. She had written with this pen, many things she thought she couldn't write. Her words, so elegantly put down by this feather pen has somehow transformed her mind. Her thoughts seem to linger where they don't use to. They stand by as if waiting for a reply. Every stroke on paper creates a memory in her mind.

When she had finished writing something, Emily would look at the words, their beauty she would feel with her hands and her eyes. Then she would read them using her voice. She recognized them but at the same time they were all new to her. If there were any useless, misplaced words, she would cross them out in an instant without even allowing the words to settle in her mind.

The words, they stroke the pages, every single crispy letter, laid bare. Her own misguided thoughts as she described them. How strange to know how to do this - this writing down of words - familiar and yet foreign. Even as she robbed her eyes as the sky became dark, she could not believe she had written these words. These elegant words that she seldom use in the presence of others. How very distracting that the candlelight focused on these words like spotlights of sunshine.

Emily would not let anyone read her words until they are ready. She dare not allow them to be read in their raw form if they are not put together in their proper order. Why should she even have to share them in the first place? Of cause, she wanted to be praise and admire even smirk at a little, she would not have might. As least it would get read. At least they are out there, in the open field, ready for anyone to breath them in, to enjoy, to be amuse by, to savior the thoughts that would swept the mind away. All these, her very own words and nobody else's.