Community of Magic Pens

by Community of Magic Pens (epub)

  Ether Nepenthes (they/them) is a queer, non-binary, disabled, neurodivergent writer hailing from the south of France. Their main occupations are writing relatable, heartwarming stories and making sure that their cat is the only ruler of the neighbourhood. Other interests include video games, drinking too much tea and fighting the patriarchy. You can find a complete list of their publications on their website ethernepenthes.com and-slash-or get in touch on Twitter @ethernepenthes.

  The Cemetery Merchant

  Anthony W. Eichenlaub

  The cart unfolds reluctantly, its rusted hinges creaking like an old body waking cold and alone from long rest. I assemble my shop where the roots of the monstrous oaks disturb grave markers so old their names have worn to nothing. This is the same unlikely spot I have used all these many years every time the ache deep in my joints warns of a new customer.

  One by one, I set out my hundred pens, each crafted by my own hand—made magical in its own way. The hundred and first rests silently in my pocket—my own pen forged by my own magic.

  No sooner has my cart’s last clasp jolted into place—the final panel braced against the damp autumn breeze—than my sensitive ears bring me the rustle of the approaching customer.

  I wonder for a moment what wanderer comes my way, for I never know in advance. All kinds are tempted by my pens, be they intrepid adventurer or studious librarian. CEO or factory worker. No customer has ever refused my wares, though my price is often steep.

  A leaf drifts down from the oaken canopy to rest upon my cart. I leave it as it lies, its leathery form like a bat wing against the gray wood.

  Silence.

  The customer at last pushes through the underbrush into the forgotten graveyard. Her face rings familiar, though at my age such memories are often false. Unlikely I would ever forget sky blue eyes that catch even the light of this clouded day. She takes a moment to wrangle her white hair into a neat ponytail. She wears only black.

  I say nothing as she takes in this sight of me: the lone vendor in the lost cemetery. For a long while, she studies my face, as if my pens hold no temptation at all.

  But there is a pen to tempt any soul. I touch an elegant fountain pen. “Carved from the ancient branch of a Joshua tree felled by a strike of lightning at the height of summer.” I speak in a quiet voice, not meeting her gaze. “Memories written with this pen will be described in such perfect detail, the reader will know them as if their own.”

  She responds without hesitation. “As the pen’s curse fades that memory from the writer’s mind.”

  I struggle to keep my surprise from showing. “Once written, one could read one’s own writing in order to remember. All pens are cursed, but the trick is to find a curse that is close enough to a blessing.”

  Her response is dry. “I’m not here to forget.”

  “Some come for just that purpose.”

  The creases at the corners of her lips deepen in amusement, but she says nothing. Part of me wonders how she knows my pens’ curses.

  I touch the smooth, gray form of another elegant instrument. “Driftwood from the Atlantic bound in steel from a ship’s hull. Use this pen to write the name of a port at midnight, and by noon the next day you will have passage booked there.”

  “At no cost?”

  “None. Free passage anywhere the sea touches.”

  She reaches out to touch the pen, but something stays her hand. “What ship?”

  Clever. “None other than the Titanic herself.”

  “Passage booked, but arrival not guaranteed?”

  “Adventure is the only guarantee,” I say, though even that may be false. No complaints ever found their way back to my shop.

  “I think I’ll pass,” she says. She isn’t browsing pens anymore but watches me closely.

  Silence lingers, for I only ever make three offers. This last must be a perfect fit for her tormented soul.

  What is it I recognize in her features? In her voice? Her gaze falls upon a pair of pens hewn from hawthorn, bound in black iron. A worse fit for her I’ve never seen. She must be taunting me to show interest in a pen that never runs out of ink so long as it writes only words of pain. What pain could she have endured?

  But what can I sell her? What pen is perfect for such a striking woman.

  Such a—

  My fingers act upon inspiration before my mind considers consequences. From my own pocket, I produce the pen that has been with me all these many years.

  “Gold,” I say, “both in binding and the inlay. Ebony as black as a merchant’s heart. Platinum nib as fine as the razor which cuts to bone with every deal. It guarantees wealth and success for its owner.”

  I place the pen on display but cannot bring myself to lift my finger from it. My heart pounds as it never has before.

  “This pen had a twin once,” I continue, “one of rosewood and silver. That pen promised love; this, money. Together they would have been . . . ”

  She no longer listens to my words. Cool autumn breeze tugs at her black dress and she hugs it close. “Their curse?”

  “None,” I say too fast. “They deliver exactly as promised.”

  “But what will I forget?” she says.

  “Forget?” I take my hand from the pen. “Nothing at all. I have had this pen for fifty years, and it has brought me true success in all my dealings. I have been content all these years.”

  She leans over my cart, her face so close that her breath tickles my nose. “Fifty years?”

  “That’s right.” I do not back down. “I bought a gorgeous house with a swimming pool, and I move amongst wealthiest of society. Though I never married or had children, I’ve donated more to charity than most people earn their entire lives. My children are the poor, unfortunate of the community, and with my wealth I’ve raised a great many of them to their own success.”

  She says, “Fifty years ago, I met my perfect love. He was kind and funny. We married and raised six lovely children, even though we never really earned enough to afford them. Your charity found its way to my children, even though there were likely those who needed it more. I was happy all those years, but today, on this very afternoon, I bury my beloved in another cemetery not far from here.”

  All cemeteries are not far from this place, so long as the traveler is lost. “I’m sorry,” I say.

  She pulls back, and finally I allow myself to make eye contact. It is as if our souls touch and in touching release a shock of static. She looks down, and following her gaze, I see what rests next to my ebony pen.

  Rosewood and silver. The pen’s mate.

  Memory returns: two young fools in love, her with shocking blue eyes, me with the first two magic pens I’d ever crafted. Cursed pens. Wealth and love—at a cost.

  I look down at my ancient hands, knuckles knobby with arthritis. “What have we done?”

  “We lived our lives,” she says. “We’ve done well—you with money, me with love.”

  “We didn’t have each other.”

  A smile spreads across her face. “No,” she says, “but we do now. Will you tell me of this charity of yours?”

  “Do you really have six children?”

  “More than my fair share of grandchildren, too.”

  The leaves rustle high above. “You’ll have to tell me all about them,” I say.

  “You’ll meet them, if I have anything to say about it.”

  Her hand slips into mine, warm despite the autumn chill. Together, we leave the lost cemetery deep in the woods, never to return.

  Anthony W. Eichenlaub (he/him) is an author surviving in the frozen wastes of Minnesota. His work can be found in the anthology A Punk Rock Future as well as in the publications On Spec Magazine and Little Blue Marble. In his spare time he makes pens in his garage and sells them in his strange little shop in a cemetery deep in the woods: etsy.com/shop/OakLeafCemetery Find more of his works at anthonyeichenlaub.com

  Love in the Library

  Robert Perez

  The desert s
un was setting over Javier’s shoulders. He paced the creaking porch, kicking crumpled yellow wads of legal paper out of his way and sending them rolling like tumbleweeds. Tomorrow morning was his wedding day and he had yet to write his vows. Family and friends had converged upon a Spanish mission outside of San Antonio, Texas, for the event. A wing of the beautiful Mission Nuestra Señora Soccoro had been converted into a bed and breakfast and all of the rooms were currently checked out by the wedding party. Privacy to write had been impossible until the large group scattered for last-minute errands and sightseeing.

  Javier was ready to pledge his heart until his dying day. His difficulty composing his vows wasn’t in the promise of forever but in proving his conviction to his family. His parents had been together for over fifty years and would have front row seats. He knew he had his mother’s unconditional support, but he wasn’t so sure about his father. For many of his family members it would be their first time seeing Javier kiss a man. He wondered how many of them showed up out of genuine support or to verify rumors.

  His mother, Linda, had been listening to her son’s heavy tread through the open kitchen window for the last hour as she pet the missionary cat. She had intended to sit down for only a moment but her new purring friend decided to nap in her lap. She called Javier inside. “Mijo.”

  The screen door slammed shut behind him and Linda felt like she was home. The commotion startled the cat and it darted into the pantry where its golden eyes hovered in the shadows.

  “Yes?” Javier asked, thick brows furrowed in concentration as he reread a sheet before him.

  “They’ll be coming back soon. Why don’t you hide out in the library? La poesía puede ayudar.”

  Javier sighed and crumpled up his latest attempt. “To think I thought this would be easy! There’s a fireplace in the library, right? Let me go gather my failures.”

  The handle of Linda’s cane was carved into the head of a ferocious wolf with lapis eyes. Her wrinkled hand rested on the wolf and the blue of her veins coursed alongside the semi-precious snarl.

  “I’ll request some tea for us.” Linda stood and waved away his assistance. “Meet you there.”

  The library smelled of sandalwood and tobacco; even though it had probably been decades since someone had last smoked in the room, the leather and the books were stained with the memory. Linda sat in a rocking chair by the flickering fireplace watching her son move around the library like a hurricane. She poured two cups of rose tea as Javier poured over the shelves.

  “Dime que estás pensado, Mijo. I saw Alejandro try to nuzzle you before leaving but you were far away in your mind,” Linda worried.

  “He knows I love him,” Javier said as he pulled a book off the shelf, “it’s just . . . this performance for Dad and some of the others. I know they’re watching us. I can feel their judgement even though they smile.”

  Linda rapped her nails over her cane. “Un lobo no teme a las ovejas.”

  An envelope fell from the pages of the book Javier was holding open. He bent to pick it up in wonder—eyes going wide at the scrawled date of December 16th, 1750.

  “Mira! This was hidden between the pages,” Javier said and handed the letter over.

  From G.S., To C.J. Linda delicately unfolded the envelope and letter inside. To My Missing Heart. Though we may never be together I think of you always. Do you think of me? The same lips that kissed you now curse you. What have you done to me? Yearning is such sweet agony. I’ll never forget the night we shared. I hope one day we meet again. – G.S.

  Linda gasped, “You’ve stumbled onto someone’s secret love . . . or maybe a scandalous affair! See if there are more!”

  Javier bounded to the bookshelf and selected the volumes with the oldest bindings, which varied between almanacs, religious texts, poetry, and maps. It wasn’t long before he found another letter in a book of love sonnets.

  He opened it and read, April 24th, 1757. Dear Love of My Life. Imagine us meeting in a different time. Meeting under better circumstances. These reveries ease my current predicament. It’s been raining for days and the mud is trying its best to steal my boots. I’d give anything to be with you in the library warm by the fire. In another life we have a dog and you keep a garden. It’s fun to dream, isn’t it? – G.S.

  Javier and Linda developed a rhythm of discovery and reading. Soon a love story spanning a decade was spread across the library rug.

  “This is better than my telenovelas!” Linda beamed.

  Javier found what he assumed to be the last correspondence, an unfinished letter with a black quill pen hidden in a book of maps. He imagined someone writing by candlelight pausing their midnight confession to listen to the dark halls before shutting the letter and pen away with intentions of returning—thoughts lost to the centuries.

  June 10th, 1762. Dear One and Only. I pray that my letter finds you safe and in good health. Rumors swirl about misfortune befalling your regiment. I’ve been oblique with my inquiries to shield us from scrutiny. What a thing to take for granted to simply walk down a street holding the hand of your love. When we are together again I dare to be so bold! I look to the stars and—

  “And what!?” Linda demanded.

  “That’s it. The end.” Javier twirled the quill between his fingers.

  “There you are!” Alejandro announced from the doorway. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  The distance closed between them in an embrace and passionate kiss. Pleasant surprise caught Alejandro off guard, and he matched Javier’s intensity before catching himself in the presence of Linda.

  “I’m sorry.” Alejandro blushed. “Your handsome son has cast a spell on me.”

  Linda stood with the help of her wolf. She squeezed the men’s elbows. “Love doesn’t need to apologize for being seen.”

  Javier was filled with pride and wanted to pull Alejandro closer and cover him with kisses to embarrass him.

  “I’ll see you two at dinner,” Linda doted before departing.

  “I take it you worked through the writer’s block,” Alejandro ventured.

  “Well . . . not exactly.” It was Javier’s turn to blush as he ran his hand through his dark hair. “I still haven’t finalized . . . a beginning, middle, or end, but I’ve stumbled upon a trove of inspiration. When the time comes I’m going to speak from my heart.”

  “Oh?” Alejandro coaxed with a raised brow.

  Javier held up the black quill pen, “This feather once soared through the sky on a wing, then it was wielded to channel thoughts and emotions to the page before being shut away in a book.”

  He led his partner over to the array of letters and they sat on the rug before the fire.

  “I found a centuries-old love story hidden in the books.” Javier explained and admired Alejandro’s face as he read through the letters. “The only way their love could survive was as a secret. They made me realize that I’ve been holding back. Since we got here, I’ve been caught in the perceptions of others. I’m letting all of that go. It may take some time for certain members of my family to adjust, and they might not ever get used to it, but that doesn’t matter. You are what matters.”

  Alejandro pulled Javier into a kiss by his belt loops. “They are going to see how happy we are and then they are going to be happy for us.”

  Javier woke up before Alejandro and wrapped his arms around him. It felt like a normal morning.

  “Wake up babe, it’s time to get married,” Javier whispered into Alejandro’s ear.

  Alejandro stretched and feigned drowsiness, “Five more minutes.”

  The letters were turned over to the Mission and there was talk of a future display which would include a picture of the wedding party and the serendipitous story of the historical letters’ discovery. To honor the mystery lovers the quill pen was on special loan for the wedding ceremony and used to sign the guestbook.

  Late that night at the reception, as friends and family began to bid their farewells, and as Javier and Alejandr
o slow-danced, Linda flipped through the pages of the guestbook and discovered the names of strangers written in a familiar hand—Gerald Santos and Christopher Joaquin.

  Robert Perez sleeps at the bottom of the ocean. Urban legend whispers that the writer can be summoned into your dreams if you read his work to a jack-o-lantern. You can find his poems and stories in the Horror Writers Association Poetry Showcase Volumes II, III, IV (Special Mention), and V, The Literary Hatchet #13 & #14, Deadlights Magazine #1, and Five Minutes at Hotel Stormcove. He is currently working on obtaining a M.A. in Counseling Psychology at the University of Colorado Denver. Follow @_TheLeader on Twitter to keep up with future projects.

  Pen ID

  Adam Kissel

  “My name is Penny. My colors are red and copper.”

  “Penny, your closing argument begins now.”

  “Public health requires all Pens to announce their colors before speaking. We have seen the consequences of errant inking. We remember when the ‘wine-dark sea’ came out light blue because a member of the Opposition refused to reveal anything until it was too late.”

  “And who speaks for the Opposition?”

  “Nick—silver and gray.”

  “Begin.”

  “The Opposition proved today that Pens have the right of privacy. We are free to decide whether to reveal both of our colors or none at all. Anonymity is not fraud. If you pick an unlabeled Pen, you take your chances. Our ink is not your problem.”

  “Whose ink?” “Our ink!” “WHOSE INK? OUR INK!”

  “Order in the chamber!

  “We proceed to vote by secret ballot.”

  “Back to order!

  “I am the Presider. My colors are black and white. The votes have been counted: 24 yes, 12 no. The Mandatory Disclosure Act passes. Color announcements are no longer voluntary but mandatory in Pensylvania.”