Jack was afraid of his potential, so he never picked up the pen.
He left it there in front of him and stared at it like a volcano on the verge of eruption. The afternoon light slanted through his window, casting long shadows across his desk. He had all the heat and fire needed to create an explosion—ideas swirled in his mind like molten lava, stories begging to be told, characters whispering their names—but his fear of blocking the sky stopped him from exploding. What if he wasn’t good enough? What if the words came out wrong, tangled and broken?
So he sat and stared at the pen in front of him, his hands folded in his lap, trembling slightly.
And the pen stared back.
In fact, it grew a pair of eyes—bright, curious eyes—and looked at Jack with an expression that seemed almost... knowing.
The pen blinked.
And stared.
Jack’s heart hammered in his chest. In unbelief, he rubbed his own eyes, the world blurring and refocusing. Then he pinched himself and felt the sharp sting of pain. This was real. Somehow, impossibly real.
The pen then grew two legs, thin and wobbly, and hurled itself upward, standing at attention like a tiny soldier.
“Jack.”
The pen spoke, its voice small but clear as a bell.
“Jack.”
Still in shock, his mouth dry, Jack sheepishly replied with a “yes.”
Now with two arms sprouting from its sides, a small hand pointed directly at Jack’s chest, right where his heart beat wildly. With utmost determination, the pen boldly proclaimed:
“Believe in yourself!”
The words hung in the air, settling into Jack’s chest like something he’d been waiting his whole life to hear.
And as quickly as the pen breathed out this one line, it fell back onto the desk as if nothing had ever happened, just an ordinary pen once more.
Jack sat there for a long moment, feeling something shift inside him—a door opening, a light turning on. His hand reached out, fingers no longer trembling.
Jack picked up the pen for the first time.