Community of Magic Pens

by Community of Magic Pens (epub)

  To Essie’s amazement, the pen sprang from her hand and hovered above a tattered spiral notebook sitting on her nightstand. The pen didn’t have eyes, but Essie could have sworn it was glaring at her. Of course, she thought. The one thing she hadn’t tried was the one thing that pens were designed for: writing.

  Essie spread the notebook open in front of her. The pen popped off its lid and began to write of its own accord. In swift movements, it danced across the page, filling the white space with bright pink ink. Essie leaned over the page and read:

  Dear diary,

  I hope someone drops a piano on Pierre’s head while he’s walking home. Or he falls through an open manhole cover and drowns in sewage. Or he gets eaten by a flock of rabid seagulls . . . Okay, so maybe seagulls can’t get rabies, but the point still stands.

  Did he really think I wouldn’t find out about him and Maria? She’s my cousin, for crying out loud! Why did I ever believe he might be a decent guy? I really thought–

  The words stopped in an illegible scribble, and the pen fell onto the bed. Essie took a long breath. Clearly this was someone’s diary entry, but Essie had no idea whose diary it was, what she was supposed to do with this information, or how this particular kind of magic was supposed to help her fight crime.

  Eventually, for lack of a better idea, Essie picked up the pen, left a blank line underneath the journal entry, and wrote: “Wow. Pierre sounds like a jerk.”

  She set the pen down again. For a long time, it didn’t move. Maybe the pen had decided it had done enough magic for one day. But just when Essie was about to give up, the pen flew into the air once again and wrote:

  Are you a ghost?

  Ah. So apparently it worked both ways.

  Essie scribbled in response, “No! Sorry! Not a ghost! I’m actually a superhero graduate who got this useless pen as my hero Gift, and I had no idea what it did until this exact moment. So . . . sorry!”

  This time the pause was much shorter.

  You’re a superhero? Which one?

  “Hope Bringer,” Essie replied. “But you’ve probably never heard of me. I graduated with a 4.0 GPA and a double major in Urban Vigilantism and Classical Heroic Ethics, but all I have to show for it is this useless pen and about $30,000 in student loans.”

  Same! The pen wrote back. Except I was an English major, not a superhero. My name’s Jimena, by the way. The pen hesitated for a second, hovering in midair, then continued, You keep calling your pen useless, but pink ink is literally showing up in my diary out of nowhere, so I have to say, that pen seems amazing to me!

  Essie smiled. “Thanks,” she wrote. “But for a superhero, this is a pretty disappointing power. One of my classmates can literally burst into flames. How is this pen supposed to help me take down bad guys? Unless you want me to go beat up Pierre . . . ?”

  Ha ha! No, don’t bother, Jimena wrote back. Pierre’s a jerk, but he’s not worth the effort. There was another short pause. There are non-violent ways to be a hero, you know.

  “Like what?”

  Like this.

  “What do you mean?”

  I was lonely, Jimena explained. I was about to make a really bad decision like chugging an entire bottle of Moscato and calling my ex. But then you started chatting with me and saved me from social embarrassment and a nasty hangover. So, thanks!

  That was one way of looking at things. “I’m glad I could help, but this is hardly superhero work. It’s not the same as taking down villains.”

  No, it’s not, Jimena admitted. But that doesn’t mean this is any less important. Maybe the world has enough tough guys beating each other up. Maybe what the world needs right now is a kind heart and a pen. After all, the pen is mightier than the sword, right?

  Essie chuckled, but Jimena had started the wheels turning in her head. All this time she had thought her Gift was useless because she couldn’t use it to bring people to justice after they carried out evil schemes. But if she got this right—if she could write to people and help them when they were hurting—maybe she could prevent the evil schemes from happening in the first place. Maybe she could keep people from becoming supervillains at all. And even if she couldn’t, maybe she could at least bring comfort, hope, or—dare she say it—friendship to people whose hearts were heavy.

  “Thanks,” Essie wrote. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She paused, then added, “Who just saved who here? If the whole English major thing doesn’t work out, you might want to consider a career in heroism.”

  Ha ha! I’ll keep it in mind, Jimena replied. And if you ever get tired of being a superhero, you’d make a great writer. You already have the pen for it!

  Essie smiled down at the pen in her hand. It wasn’t a weapon. It couldn’t fight supervillains or lock people up. But maybe that was the point. Maybe power could be delicate and simple and hot pink. Maybe, just sometimes, this was all it took to be a hero.

  Elizabeth Shaffer (she/her) lives in Moline, IL with her husband, their two black cats, and their bearded dragon. During the day, she works for a non-profit organization that helps families pay for child care. In her free time, she enjoys reading, writing, acting, traveling, watching too much TV, and learning to play the ukulele. Her short stories can also be found in Five Minutes at Hotel Stormcove and Grumpy Old Gods volumes 1 and 3.

  Qalam

  Z. Ahmad

  When my eyes opened to a clock that said 8:25, panic swept through me. I had stayed up too late reading last night. Science fiction, fantasy, horror, even non-fiction—if a genre existed, I devoured it. I probably loved reading and story telling a little too much if I am being honest. It is why I am going to be late to class. I quickly brushed my teeth, slapped some deodorant on, and washed my face.

  “I’m leaving,” I yelled to the house as I put on my boots.

  “You’re going to be late” was the response I heard back.

  “I knoowph,” I grumbled as I shoved a red gala in my mouth.

  I sped away in my car, and I didn’t check my phone—I didn’t notice that I had 26 WhatsApp messages from last night and a missed phone call. I was oblivious to the fact that the parking lot was basically empty as I ran into the masjid and Islamic center where my hadith class was to be held. I checked the clock in the hallway, 9:02, only two minutes late, but I still felt slightly nervous as I opened the door.

  As I opened the door, I saw in the front, a blackboard that stood slightly off balance. It was missing one of its wheels. On the board, written in chalk, was the smooth Arabic script of my teacher:

  إِنَّ أَوَّلَ مَا خَلَقَ اللَّهُ الْقَلَمَ فَقَالَ لَهُ اكْتُبْ فَجَرَى بِمَا هُوَ كَائِنٌ إِلَى الْأَبَدِ

  It was the hadith from last class. My teacher had been going through a series of Islamic creation hadith. We had started with the first thing ever created: the Qalam (the pen). This pen was instructed to write down all the stories of everything that would happen from its creation until forever. It took me a moment to realize but the classroom was empty. Had class not started yet? Was I somehow early? At this point I pulled out my phone to see the red icon letting me know I missed a bunch of messages. Apparently, class was cancelled. My teacher had the flu. I sighed. Might as well take this time to finish up the book from last night. So, I wandered over to the library.

  A woman with weathered skin and strands of white hair poking out of her hijab sat at a table alone. She had something in her hands. At first, I thought it was a crochet hook, but on closer inspection I saw that the woman was slowly and deliberately using a small sharp knife to whittle away at a stick. The shaving was rhythmic - Chtt - Chtt - Chtt. I was confused, I had not seen anything like it before. Why shave away at a stick?

  “Asalamualakum, Auntie, what is it that you have in your hand?”

  “Walakummusalam, young one, I am making a pen,” replied the old woman, not lifting her eyes from the knife and the stick.

  How could a stick be a pen? I
thought to myself, as I took the seat next to her. As I watched her work in silence, it became clear that the stick was in fact bamboo. The more she cut it, the more it began to look like a pen. She had transformed it into something that looked like a wooden fountain pen, with a slanted pen-head, and an oblong hole shaped like windows I had seen in mosques. It took her another 15 minutes to finish, at which point she stopped and looked up at me, as if surprised to see me there.

  “This is where the ink goes,” she said, pointing to the top of the little oblong hole, as she dipped the pen into black ink.

  Not pausing she said softly, “Do you know how to write?”

  My first thoughts were, what type of question was that? Do I know how to write?!? Of course, I could write, writing isn’t exactly uncommon, it is something every 1st grader can do. It took half a second for me to realize how arrogant that thought was, and correct myself. My own grandmother only learned to read and write well after her children, including my mother, had moved away and had children of their own.

  “Ye—I mean I know how to write with these,” I said, pulling out my gel pen, my mechanical pencil, and a few errant highlighters. “But with that—I don’t have the first clue where to even start.”

  “The one who masters it can go many places,” she said, smiling as she took out a sheet of plain white paper.

  “Will you teach me?” I asked, wanting to learn.

  She began to write, as if in response to my question. The first thing that she wrote was the Arabic letters one by one: alaf (ا), baa (ب), taa (ت), thaa (ث). I watched her expert control with the dark ink. Her ability to intertwine the calligraphic lines was a work of art. The letters seemed to swirl together. It looked like what fantasy movies and tv shows were going for when they tried to write in Elven. It looked magical, but grounded in reality.

  I was still slightly entranced by her writing, which is why I ended up gobsmacked, when she reached out her hand holding the pen. Here, you try writing, she seemed to say.

  “Ummm I can’t – I mean I don’t know how to!” I exclaimed, hesitant to take the pen from her.

  “Are you not looking for adventure, to try something new? Did you not just spend time in my company out of sheer curiosity? Were you not late to class because you were interested in stories, Jennah?” she said, challenging me to take the inked pen from her hand.

  “Wait how do you know I was late? How do you know my name? I don’t even know you,” I said as my heart began pounding faster and breathing transformed into short staccato bursts. I mean, stalkers came in all sorts of forms—had my curiosity gotten the better of me?

  “Uhh mmm . . . well, don’t panic. I mean you no harm; to prove it I’ll even give you my name. Many call me Zarqa al Yamama,” she said, smiling, with her hand still holding the pen out to me.

  I reached out my hand, I am not sure why I did it. I felt the pen calling to me. Jennah, it whispered. I can help you tell stories. I can help you find so many adventures. You could write them with me, you could learn them with me. It felt like the pen wanted me to write all the stories it held within its many different futures. I don’t think I will ever know for sure if it was out of my own volition or if the old woman pushed the pen into my outreached hand, but when my skin touched the wood of the pen, it tingled like I had touched fire. I almost dropped it. The qalam felt hot. Wood should not feel warm, let alone hot—thermodynamics didn’t work that way.

  “This isn’t a normal pen, is it?” I asked as both of us still held the qalam.

  “It is normal for what it is, but it is not like your pens. Let us write together,” she said as she grabbed my hand.

  I barely touched the pen. I allowed her to write and my hand to follow. She spelled out بغداد (Bagdad) in flowing Arabic calligraphy. She followed by writing a name, Fakhr-un-Nisa Shuhdah Umm Muhammad al-Baghdadiyyah, a year, 1067, and a small symbol. Then I was not in my library anymore. I mean I was in a library but not the one I was in just moments ago. It felt old, the way Colonial Williamsburg feels old. Or like a recreated building. You know, the architecture doesn’t match what you are familiar with in modern life, but it isn’t a ruin yet. The building was beautiful though, all libraries are. There were large arches that supported the building, and most importantly it was full of stories. I could tell some books were bound in leather and there were entire shelves of tall scrolls.

  “We are at the House of Wisdom, Jennah; there is someone you must meet if you are to master the qalam.”

  Although my Arabic was rudimentary, I somehow understood people as they spoke fusha (classical) Arabic. It was as if the qalam was whispering to me to make sure I understood.

  Zarqa approached a woman who looked to be in her 40’s wearing a long dress and colorful head covering that draped over her chest and continued down to her knees.

  “Asalamualakum Shaykhah, I have a student for you. Jennah needs to learn from you, oh ‘Glory of Womankind’ and ‘Writer of Bagdad’. Jennah is smart and already knows basic writing but not calligraphy. Jennah has no family here and is alone in this world and is in need of your kindness and assistance,” Zarqa said.

  It took a moment but it clicked. I was in Bagdad. I was in the year 1068. I was in the House of Wisdom. The library that was destroyed by the Mongols in 1258, a few hundred years from now, or almost a millennium ago, according to my old-time reference point. Zarqa was talking to Fakhr-un-Nisa Shuhdah Umm Muhammad al-Baghdadiyyah, a woman hadith scholar and calligrapher. She was legitimately one of the best calligraphers of all time. None of this is making sense; I cannot think.

  “Jennah, what do you know of the hadith?” Shaykhah Shuhdah Umm Muhammad asked.

  I had attended over a year of hadith lessons. I thought I had memorized literally hundreds of hadith, at least if you had asked me yesterday, I would have been able to recite them one after another. But now, my mind was blank. I could not recall even a single saying.

  “Umm, I don’t know much, I—”

  Then suddenly the image of the blackboard came into focus, and I begin to repeat it in Arabic, “inn ‘awwal ma khalaq alllah alqalam faqal lah aktub fajaraa bima hu kayin ‘iilaa al’abad.” Truly, the first (thing) to be created by God was the pen. God told it to write, so it wrote all that will exist until forever. I follow it up saying the isnad or chain of reciters going back to Prophet Muhammad.

  “I will teach you, Jennah,” replies the Shaykhah.

  Zarqa takes me aside, smiling as she says, “You will learn to write from her. This qalam will take you to lands and places unknown to you, and it will take you back home. You will learn, then you will write. But my time here with you is done; I am just the pen-giver. Peace be with you on your journeys—oh, one more thing . . . Look me up in Mt. Qaf sometime, Jennah, there are plenty of stories there.”

  And then she was gone, she just burst into flames—thankfully there were no books in the immediate vicinity or we would have burned down the library before the Mongols got a chance. Oh my gosh, the Mongols were coming . . . well, they would be here in another two hundred years. Did she say Mount Qaf? The home of the Jinn? But I couldn’t worry about that right now, I was mostly alone in Baghdad, a thousand years before I was even born, with only the smallest clue of how to get back. But I was going to learn so much. The world was opened and closed for me at the same time, so I clutched the pen tightly and smiled at my new teacher. I was going to figure this out.

  Z. Ahmad (she/her) describes herself as a Muslim American feminist physicist. She obtained her undergraduate degree in physics from Southeast Missouri State University, and is currently pursuing a masters degree while working as a research analyst in Ohio. In her quickly diminishing free time she comes up with convoluted adventures for her D&D party, and studies classical Arabic to better understand the Quran. Ms. Ahmad draws inspiration for her stories from her experiences growing up in rural America as a daughter in a biracial family. In her writing she enjoys exploring themes related to female empowerment, cultural intersectionalit
y, science, science fiction, and fantasy.

  Inheritance

  J. S. Bailey

  The funeral had seemed to last for years. Gretchen recalled it as a series of tragic snapshots: rows of mourners in their Sunday best sitting in polished wood church pews while Cousin Charlie performed the eulogy, a somber procession out to the cemetery damp with morning dew, the priest reciting prayers in his white vestments beside the grave.

  Gretchen sat in the attic bedroom of her Aunt Rosita’s house now, watching raindrops trickle down the panes of spotted glass. Why hadn’t she come to visit more often these past few years? Grandma Sherry, her father’s mother, had spoiled Gretchen with treats while growing up, and had taught her how to play both the piano and the violin. They’d shared secrets and private jokes, and never would again.

  When Gretchen had gotten a new marketing job in Cleveland and moved away five years ago, Grandma Sherry had given her a bone-crushing squeeze and said, “You’re going to have the best life, sweetie.”

  Gretchen had laughed and said, “Well, I certainly hope so!”

  A knowing glint appeared in Grandma Sherry’s green eyes. “I’m not wishing you the best life, Gretchen. I’m telling you you’re going to have the best life. Trust me.” She crossed her heart with one finger.

  Tears ran freely down Gretchen’s cheeks as she remembered the woman who’d meant so much to her. If only she could talk to her again . . .

  Footsteps ascending the attic stairs drew her attention away from the window, and there came a soft knock at the door. “Gretchen? Can I come in?”

  “Sure.” Gretchen wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and her cousin Emily stepped into the room holding a cardboard box with the words “For Gretchen” printed on the side in violet permanent marker.

  Violet had been Grandma Sherry’s favorite color.