Mightier Than the Sword

Other than the story I'm sharing below, I didn't get a whole lot of writing done last week. So, since the story ran kind of long anyway, that's all you're getting today.

This story came from the prompt I tried in place of the actual prompt a couple of weeks ago, then abandoned because I couldn't get it off the ground. Looks like I finally figured it out. :-D

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The pen hadn't been worth stealing. Well, maybe for somebody else, but not as far as I’m concerned. I gotta tell you, I’m sorry I did. But maybe I should start at the beginning, then you’ll understand.

I was trying to turn over a new leaf, see, but growing up on the streets the way I did as a kid leaves a kind of aura around a person, you know what I mean? Anyways, the only legit jobs I could get were pretty much scraping the bottom the barrel, and I didn’t want to stay there the rest of my life.

So there I was, contemplating my future, and Marty got this bright idea to go visit this psychic he knows. Marty was always getting bright ideas which should have warned me what it might lead to ‘cause Marty’s bright ideas generally get us into a fix.

You gotta understand, I don’t hold with all that woo-woo stuff, but I went with Marty to see the aunt of his friend’s cousin’s brother’s wife. She has this little table set up in the back of a pawn shop over on the north side of town.

Anyway, she starts out telling me the usual stuff like, “You lost your father when you were very young,” and “You are having financial problems.” – no brainer stuff, you know? I mean, I never knew my father, and I wouldn’t have been there if I wasn’t down on my luck. Then she finishes up with stuff about how my luck’s about to change, and she sees money in my future. Wraps the whole thing up by telling me to remember the pen is mightier than the sword. Where do they get this crap?

Afterwards, me and Marty went to Checky’s Bar for a drink and run into Butch. He tells us about these gems they’re gonna have at the museum, put them on display or something. His girlfriend’s brother’s cousin’s girlfriend works there and said the gems are there now, in a store room, and security won’t be in place for two more days.

Marty’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “She was right! Goddamn she was right!”

“Who was right?” Butch asked.

“That fortune teller we just saw.” He turned to me. “She done told you your luck’s about to change, and you got money in your future. This must be what she was talkin’ about.”

Well, it sounded right to me. Next thing I know we’re creeping though the museum, breaking in was dead easy, looking for that store room. Marty was right in front of me and stopped dead – I almost ran into him.

“What is it?” I hissed.

With a grin he pointed at a display we were about to pass. The light was so low it took me a minute to figure out what was behind the glass, but when I did I had to grin too. It was a display of fancy pens – some collection someone had donated. Only took a second to crack open the case. I gotta say, most of those pens were pretty weird looking, but I picked one that looked like it was made of blue stone. I like blue.

“The pen is mightier than the sword,” I whispered, holding it up. Then I stuck it in my pocket, for good luck, don’t you know.

Turns out the pen was the only thing we came out with. Butch tripped an alarm while we were still looking for the store room so we hot footed it outta there. It was too late to go back and have another beer at Checky’s, so we parted ways and I headed for home. Home at that point was a one room basement apartment over on Cedarview.

I hadn’t even been home long enough to crack open a cold one when I got the urge to pull out that pen and have a look at it. Then I thought to try it out, see if it still worked, and pulled out a blank notebook. Well, next thing I know, I had that notebook filled with scribbling, then another one and another.

Marty came by to see why I hadn’t been around and he started reading those notebooks, I had about a dozen of 'em by then - who knew he was a reader? I was only half listening when he told me how good my story was, so he ups and gives the notebooks to his brother’s sister-in-law’s cousin’s kid to type up, then he sends it to some publisher on my behalf.

Well, you know the rest. Instant best seller. Instant fame. Now here I am in a high rise apartment, all the money in the world, and I can’t enjoy a minute of it ‘cause I can’t stop writing. I’m pretty sure this pen is cursed. I’ve tried to stop, believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried throwing that damned pen away but it always reappears.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a beautiful pen, but I sure wish I’d left it in that display case.