Community of Magic Pens

by Community of Magic Pens (epub)

  “Grandma wanted me to give this to you,” Emily said, spitting a strand of copper hair out of her mouth since her hands were too preoccupied. “Where do you want me to put it?”

  “On the bed is fine. What is it?”

  Emily plopped the box down atop the old quilt. “I didn’t look. Stuff she thought you’d like, I guess. I got one, too.”

  “What did you get?”

  “A couple of rolling pins and some antique pie plates. I’m going to bake some dessert and eat myself sick in her memory.”

  Gretchen couldn’t help but crack a smile. “I can help. I’m here for another week.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I can start ransacking Mom’s kitchen for ingredients.”

  Emily started toward the door, but Gretchen said, “Wait. You can stay here while I open it.”

  “I’m going to cry again, aren’t I?”

  “Yep, but at least you won’t be alone.”

  Gretchen sat down on the edge of the bed, and Emily did the same. Gretchen pried the cardboard flaps up and peered inside, smiling at the little snow globe she used to play with at her grandmother’s house every Christmas. She picked it up, shook it, and watched the snow cascade over the tiny house inside of it. Then she set it aside and continued to dig through her inheritance.

  Some things Gretchen recognized, like a rhinestone necklace and a book of poems. In the bottom of the box, however, lay a rectangular velvet case Gretchen couldn’t remember seeing at her grandmother’s house before.

  “What’s that?” Emily asked, leaning in for a closer look.

  “I don’t know.” Gretchen flipped up the velvet lid to reveal a shiny blue pen lying inside of it, along with a folded note. The note had been written in Grandma Sherry’s handwriting and said, “You’ll understand someday.”

  “Why would she leave me a pen?” Gretchen asked. She picked the pen up. Since it was made of metal, it had a bit of weight to it, but it couldn’t have been worth any great fortune. Was the pen supposed to mean something to her? Maybe it was meant to go to one of her other cousins, instead, like Charlie, who’d always dreamed of being a writer.

  “You’ll understand someday,” Emily said in an ethereal tone, waggling her fingers. “Come on, let’s go make some pie.”

  The drive back to Cleveland was long and wet—it was storming again, and Gretchen started to wish she could hop on a plane and fly to some dry place full of sunshine and seagulls.

  She wouldn’t be happy in a place like that, though, because Grandma Sherry wouldn’t be there to share it with her.

  Could she ever be happy again?

  After unpacking at her condo, Gretchen took the things from her grandmother and laid them out in a row on her coffee table, smiling at the memories they evoked—save for the pen, which meant nothing specific to her, since she’d never seen her grandmother use it.

  She dug through her purse and found a crinkly notepad, then clicked the pen and scribbled some circles onto the first blank page.

  The pen worked. She wondered how old it was.

  Gretchen had never been much of a writer, but she remembered that Grandma Sherry had sent her a writing journal covered in metallic jellyfish and octopuses for one of her more recent birthdays. She located it in one of her desk drawers and took it and the pen to her couch, where she held the pen poised above a lined page. Gretchen thought for a few moments, and wrote.

  I wish I could see you again, Grandma. I wish I could thank you for the things you gave me, too, but this will have to do.

  Writing out her thoughts might help her cope with her grief, she supposed. Tears stung her eyes, and she wiped them on her sleeve.

  Gretchen touched the pen to the page to write some more, then let out a startled cry when ink bled out of the pen tip. It formed into words that scrawled themselves across the page of their own accord.

  What’s happening? Who is this?

  Her heart galloped. She blinked, and the words remained on the page beneath her own, as fixed in place as any ordinary ink.

  She recognized the narrow, looping penmanship immediately.

  Hand shaking, she wrote, This is Gretchen Wyler. How can you be writing in my journal?

  Nothing happened at first, but after a lengthy pause, more ink leaked from the pen and shaped itself into words. This is Sherry Wyler. How can you be writing on my shopping list?

  Afraid that she might be losing her grip on reality, Gretchen wrote, Is this a haunted pen?

  Haunted? came the reply. I’m no ghost. I was just getting ready to head to the supermarket, when your words butted in. And who’s Gretchen? I don’t know anybody named Gretchen. Maybe you’re the ghost here.

  Gretchen stared at the new words that had appeared. Were they really there at all? For now, she would assume they were. She’d never been taken on flights of fancy.

  How old are you? Gretchen wrote. I was born in 1985.

  More ink bled out the end of the pen. 1985? You’re kidding me! It’s 1982 right now. Are you writing to me from the future?

  I guess so, Gretchen wrote, and marveled at the mystery of it all.

  To her surprise, she didn’t feel as sad as she had when she’d first sat down on the couch.

  Gretchen had thought about mentioning the strange pen to her father to see if he’d known anything about it, but decided against it. Besides, the pen had been meant for her, not him. If Grandma Sherry had gifted her with a pen that held magical powers, maybe nobody else was supposed to know about it.

  When she returned home from work the next day, Gretchen kicked off her flats and immediately snatched the pen and journal off the coffee table. She got to writing.

  Hello, Sherry? Are you there?

  What? Yes, I’m here. How can you be writing to me? Do they make time-traveling pens in the future?

  Not that I’ve heard of, Gretchen wrote. Is it still 1982 where you are?

  Yes, last I checked. Are you one of my descendants? Wait! Don’t tell me . . . you’re one of Michael’s future kids!

  Gretchen couldn’t help but smile. Not Michael’s. James’s.

  James is going to have a little girl? Oh, this is exciting! What does the pen that you’re using look like? Is it a space-age pen? I’ve always loved those sci-fi movies.

  It’s just a blue pen that came in a velvet case. You gave it to me.

  Now that’s funny, said the words on the journal page. I’m writing with a blue pen. It’s made out of metal, and I just so happen to have a velvet case, but it was for a silver bracelet my husband bought for me. I always kept the case because it was so pretty. It’s the right size for this pen, so maybe I’ll start storing it in there.

  Do you think it’s the same pen? Gretchen asked.

  Who knows? It never seemed magical to me before. I bought it here in town. Nothing irregular about it until it started leaking ink and making words out of it without my help.

  Gretchen sat back, hearing the words inside her head in her grandmother’s own voice. Grandma Sherry would have been so young in 1982; only in her early forties.

  Do I have a good life? the ink asked, after a pause.

  Gretchen thought about the loss of her grandfather nine years ago, and how Grandma Sherry had sunk into a depression so deep that the family worried she’d never come out of it.

  She thought of Grandma Sherry bouncing her baby great-grandchildren on her knee, and singing them nursery rhymes.

  She thought of music lessons and mouthwatering pies topped with whipped cream.

  Yes, Gretchen wrote. You’re going to have the best life.

  Oh, good! I’m looking forward to it.

  Gretchen’s schedule was too full for her to write in the journal every day, though she looked forward to those moments with a burning ferocity she would never be able to explain to anyone else. Sometimes she’d open a fresh page to see cheerful greetings scrawled on it in her grandmother’s writing, and she’d tell the young Grandma Sherry about her day and what her plans were for the coming week.
In turn, Grandma Sherry would update her on the things her relatives were doing, and Gretchen would chuckle as she imagined her young father and mother planning their wedding—a hectic affair, by the sound of things.

  It’s 1983 now, her grandmother wrote. Only a couple more years until I get to meet you. Should I tell your parents to name you Gretchen?

  No! Gretchen wrote back so quickly, a cramp formed in her hand. Don’t do anything to influence things. Things should just pass as they’re meant to, don’t you think?

  That sounds very wise to me. My lips are sealed.

  The pen did not run out of ink as the years passed. The sting of Grandma Sherry’s passing lessened with time, helped, of course, by these secret communications, which Gretchen refused to ever share with anyone, for fear of what people might think. She knew she was not writing Grandma Sherry’s words; that somehow this pen possessed a sort of magic, connecting grandmother and grandchild from across the decades.

  One day the ink spelled out excited words to report Gretchen’s own birth.

  Gretchen, you’re such a beautiful baby. You didn’t tell me you would be born with a cleft lip! You’re simply gorgeous, and I wouldn’t want you to be any other way.

  Tears cascaded down Gretchen’s cheeks as she rubbed at the faint scar between her nose and upper lip—the scar she never even thought about since it had been with her for as long as she remembered, as ordinary to her as her eyes or her ears or her hair.

  She received periodic updates telling her that she’d learned to crawl, and walk, and say no. In turn, Gretchen reported to Grandma Sherry that she was now seeing a man named Omar, and that Omar had proposed, and that they were getting married in May, and that they were buying a house soon out in the suburbs, because there would be more room for them to raise a family.

  She told her grandmother how she and Omar were adopting a little boy. She told her that the adoption had fallen through, and teardrops fell to the page of her current journal while Omar sat in the other room talking in low tones to his sorrowful yet understanding parents, who assured him that everything would work out in the end, somehow, some way.

  Page after page filled with Gretchen’s accounts of their second adoption attempt, and through the magic pen, Grandma Sherry congratulated her upon the adoption of a little girl they named Marian.

  I wish I could meet Omar and Marian, Grandma Sherry said, but I fear I’d have to live to a mighty ripe old age to do that.

  Thankfully, Grandma Sherry never asked questions about herself, though Gretchen always assured her that things had gone well for her. The act of writing became such a joy for Gretchen that she craved it much in the way that one lost in the desert craves water and shade, and she never stopped using her magic pen, not even when her hair turned gray and her three children moved across the country with their families, leaving Gretchen and Omar alone with each other.

  I’m old now, Grandma Sherry’s words said to her one day. I don’t think I have much longer. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you in my time, dear, but I’m sure you know how that goes, with Marian and your boys off having their own adventures now.

  Sorry about that, Gretchen wrote, her arthritis making her joints ache. I should have stayed so I could keep you company in person.

  Nonsense! You did what you had to do. I’m leaving you this pen, by the way. You told me years ago that I gave it to you. Might as well put it in with the other things I know you’ll want. I’ll stick a note with it, in case that helps. And you know what? I have an idea for you. When I’m gone here, in my time, I won’t be able to write to you anymore. Why don’t you give this pen to someone else? It can be to whoever you want. But maybe the pen will decide for you.

  Gretchen and Grandma Sherry wrote to each other a few more times after that, but then the pen fell silent.

  The final words that Grandma Sherry had ever written to her were, I need to go close my eyes for a while; it’s been a long day. Perhaps I should hide this journal somewhere, so nobody ever sees it. Love you.

  Omar kept asking Gretchen what was wrong, and she longed to tell him the truth, but only said, “It’s just time. There’s just been too much of it . . . and I miss my grandma.”

  He put his arms around her and gave her a squeeze. “I wish I’d known her. She always sounded like one hell of a woman.”

  Gretchen laughed and said, “Now that, she was.”

  Gretchen sat on her back patio one day with a fresh journal, gripping her magic pen while Marian’s two girls tossed a frisbee back and forth to each other.

  The pen had been silent for a month, but Gretchen kept it busy.

  It’s true how they say time is like a great cog, turning and turning and turning, she wrote, keeping one eye on her grandchildren, who were in town visiting for the week. What ends begins again, and we can’t really stay sad about it when there’s so much to be happy about. I love Omar and our kids and their kids, and as much as I miss the past before all of them came into my life, I would never want it back. I love what I have, and even though it hasn’t always been easy, this has indeed been the best life.

  She paused to think of what to add next, and to her startlement, new words not her own formed beneath the paragraph she’d just written.

  I miss you so much, Gran-Gran. Mom says you’ll always be close to me, unseen, but right now you feel so far away.

  Her skin turned to gooseflesh as she lifted her gaze to her granddaughter Stephanie, who had just lobbed the frisbee at her sister’s head.

  Stephanie was the only one who ever called her Gran-Gran. The writing even resembled Stephanie’s, only it was more refined, as if penned by an adult.

  I’m here, now, Gretchen wrote, lips forming into an understanding smile. And for as long as I can, I will be.

  J. S. Bailey enjoys writing eerie tales of the supernatural that keep readers on the edges of their seats. She has published six novels and twenty-two short stories, with more on the way. Bailey is fond of long walks in the woods, British television, and lots of burritos. She lives in Cincinnati, Ohio with her husband and cats. Keep up to date on Bailey news and events by following her pages at Facebook jsbaileywrites, and on Twitter and Instagram at @jsbailey_author.

  The Taste of Words

  Kella Campbell

  In the kitchen she shared with three roommates, Lucy wrote out a recipe for pasta sauce as she worked from an online cooking video: Gourmet Chefs on Student Budgets. She could never cook from other people’s written instructions—had to learn and understand a recipe by seeing and making it, noting down quantities and steps as she went. 2 c. chopped onions, caramelized in pan.

  Outside, it was snowing, and the falling flakes looked faintly pink as they twirled through the air. A trick of the light, probably, the peachy glow of sodium streetlamps coming on or a few rays of sunset penetrating the clouds. Snow wasn’t pink.

  The chopped onions had just gone into the pan, still sharp and tear-inducing, but as Lucy sucked on the end of her pen—a childhood habit she couldn’t break—she could already taste their sweetened brown-caramel flavor.

  Puzzled, she glanced over at the pan. No, the onions were still white and raw.

  Crush & add 4 cloves garlic, she wrote. She touched the end of her pen to her lips, and the sharp tang of fresh crushed garlic roared through her mouth until she dropped the pen and reached for her mug of tea.

  Taking a blank recipe card, she wrote chocolate-dipped strawberry, then deliberately licked the pen. Yes. There was nothing in her mouth, she hadn’t eaten a bite, and yet the decadent taste of chocolate mixed with fresh berry sweetness was unmistakable.

  “Did you see how the snow seemed to turn pink for a bit earlier?” she asked her roommates when they got home. They hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary.

  Have you ever licked a pen and tasted the words you’d been writing? she wanted to ask, except that it sounded patently ridiculous in her head and she couldn’t imagine that it would come out better aloud.

 
Through the evening and morning, she kept trying—different pens, different kinds of paper, different words to taste—and all of them worked. She wrote expensive things she’d never tasted like caviar and saffron, and strange things like gasoline and dirt.

  She went to a lecture and took notes about the French Revolution, and every time she forgot and sucked on the end of her pen, she tasted blood and bread and something sour.

  Lucy ran into Jeremy at the library in the afternoon, both of them there to study. “We could sit together?” he asked. He had the kindest eyes she’d ever seen, and a stubbled jaw she wanted to touch, and the way his clothes hung on him made her think he’d be lean and strong in all kinds of interesting places. But one couldn’t just tell someone that. They sat.

  After a quarter-hour of itchy silence, during which Lucy contemplated but refrained from writing something like Jeremy’s skin or Jeremy’s lips and licking her pen, she softly said his name. He looked up. They were alone in their corner of the library.

  She couldn’t hold it in anymore. “If you suck on the end of your pen,” she said, “do you taste anything odd? Only since yesterday, when the snow looked pink—but it was probably just the light.”

  He grinned. “Let’s see.” He wrote mint on a corner of his notebook. “Like that?” Then he touched the end of his pen to his lips. “Holy crap!”

  “Not just me, then?” Lucy asked, feeling warm all over. She couldn’t tell if it was from relief at not being alone in the experience, or the fact that she was sharing the experience with him.

  “Fascinating,” he muttered. He wrote coffee and licked his pen again, nodding. “I wonder if it’s the person who wrote the words, or the pen . . . ” He bit his lip and shot her a half-embarrassed curious look. “Would you be super grossed out if I licked your pen? I’ll wipe it after.”

  She shrugged like it was no big thing and hoped she wasn’t blushing.