Community of Magic Pens

by Community of Magic Pens (epub)

  “Make him step in dog crap every day,” one of the kids called out.

  “Nah, make him wear it!” yelled another.

  “Just make him hurt.”

  The suggestions grew louder and crueler. Ella struggled to focus in the mayhem.

  The Pen had done good things, it was true, but Lonnie proved it could also do dark things. Wrongs. Things they previously thought impossible.

  She felt the lettering along the Pen’s barrel. Do Not Write to Wrong. Responsibility for the wrongs didn’t belong to the Pen, but to whoever wielded it.

  Lonnie shouted and lurched for her again.

  Ella looked down at what she’d already written in the Ledger of Truths.

  Lonnie Blunt never stole the Pen of Realities

  and never will

  She lowered the Pen to the page.

  They’d have to find other ways to create new realities now; it might be harder to make changes . . . but it would also be harder for the Lonnies of the world to undo them. Ella bent her head to scratch in a few last words, her hand shaking just a bit as she marked the period.

  because just now, the Pen of Realities

  stopped

  existing.

  N.R. Lambert (she/her) is a speculative fiction author from New York City. Her short stories appear or are forthcoming in Fireside Quarterly, Cast of Wonders, PseudoPod, and Don’t Turn Out the Lights: A Tribute to Alvin Schwartz’s Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark (HarperCollins). In addition to her work as a pop culture writer and freelance copywriter, she volunteers with Read Ahead, a reading-based mentoring program for elementary school students. Find her online at nrlambert.com.

  Invisible Ink

  Gerri Leen

  You toss so many things into the trash

  I sit here, on this table, waiting

  And watch as just about everything finds

  Its way into the rubbish or the recycling bins

  Except me

  A lowly pen

  Like so many other pens

  I was planted here

  Nothing special—if I were pretty

  If I were expensive

  You’d turn me in to Lost and Found

  Or you’d keep me

  But hidden away at home

  Lest the true owner see me and know

  You’re a thief

  So I have to be ordinary

  Because I am a thief

  I’m also not a pen

  Well, not solely a pen: I can write

  I have ink

  You would toss me if I ran out

  But as long as I can form words for you

  You’ll protect me

  You may let me languish

  But you’ll never toss me into the trash

  It’s what they counted on when they seeded me

  And so many of my kind in offices like this

  All over the country, the region—the world

  A vast network if we need to be

  But only if we need to be

  Too much interweaving creates signals that

  You might pick up

  So mainly I sit waiting

  For someone to select this table

  To lay their device or their handbag

  Down next to me

  To let me reach out, carefully

  The “noise” of the normal data activity

  Masking what I do so very well

  As I sit

  Next to your phone

  Next to your tablet

  Next to your laptop and that fancy watch

  And any other thing that sends and

  Receives data

  Data that I can take

  Because I’m not just a thief: I’m a spy

  And I am an I

  Let’s get that clear

  If you catch me, you’ll default to

  The easy answer: just a thing, a virus,

  Just malware but I’m so much more

  An AI, miniaturized to

  The bare minimum

  I can’t walk, I can’t talk

  But I can gather data

  And I can send it on

  I have my list; I know who to target; I have

  Discretion to choose when presented with multiple options

  And you’ll never see me coming

  Because you see pens like me every single day

  So you, with your lunchtime tryst

  You don’t want your partner to know about

  You’re safe unless of course your date is on my list

  Here he comes now, sitting—ah, he’s nervous

  I can track his racing pulse as he

  Plays with me, twirling me on the

  Laminate of this barely clean table

  If you knew what was on this tabletop

  But no, you don’t need to know

  I’m a thief, not a biosensor

  If you can’t clean, that’s not my problem

  But here’s someone who is on my list

  Two tables over and within range: let me go to work

  Oh, you can keep playing with me while

  I gather what I need from her phone

  Push me back and forth in some strange

  Pen football designed to work off

  “We’re about to cheat on those who love us” nerves

  I’m utilitarian and tough, made to be dropped

  Or chewed, or even tossed out of a moving car

  Not that that’s likely, here in the cafeteria

  I’m stuck on this bacteria-ridden table

  Until someone picks me up and takes me back

  To their office, then to meetings

  Where there will eventually be

  Someone else I’m supposed to collect on

  It’s inevitable really

  One small pen can make the rounds of a building

  Far faster than you might suspect

  They ran tests before they made me

  All sorts of random objects

  Pens were the most likely to survive, to migrate

  Although sometimes it’s not to an office but home

  If my GPS indicates I’m stuck in a house of

  Someone inconsequential, not on my list

  Rather than temporarily still in a coat pocket

  Or a handbag, I’ll go dormant

  Until one day, someone cleans out the drawer

  And finds me

  And does something with me other than throwing

  Me out—you would think I was a religious icon

  You throw your ethics out before you do

  A cheap plastic pen

  I am not forever, but oh so close

  I will circulate, not unlike the plastic gyres

  In your oceans, for far longer than you can imagine

  And I will complete my mission: stealing

  Everything that matters and knowing so much more

  Gerri Leen (she/her) lives in Northern Virginia and originally hails from Seattle. In addition to being an avid reader, she’s passionate about horse racing, tea, ASMR vids, and creating weird one-pan meals. She has work appearing in Nature, Galaxy’s Edge, Escape Pod, Daily Science Fiction, Cast of Wonders, and others. She’s edited several anthologies for independent presses, is finishing some longer projects, and is a member of SFWA and HWA. See more at gerrileen.com.

  Werepen

  Avery Montavon

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Three years,” I mumbled into the pillow I held over my face.

  “Can you take the pillow off your head so we can have a conversation?”

  “No,” I wanted to say. But that would never fly with Charlie. I tossed the pillow to the other side of the bed, but I still didn’t get up.

  “Repeat what you said.”

  “It’s been happening for three years.”

  Charlie crossed her arms. “You’ve been cursed for three years and never thought to tell your wife about it?”

  “I did think to tell you about i
t. I just chose not to.”

  “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

  I sighed and crossed my arms. “Because it’s a silly curse, alright? It’s not cool, or dangerous, or sexy. It’s not anything! I don’t even know how I contracted it. It’s just something that happens to me once a month, and I have to deal with it.”

  To my surprise, Charlie laughed. “Let me get this straight. You haven’t told me, your wife, about your curse, because you think I, a witch, would think it’s silly.”

  “Okay, when you say it like that . . . ”

  “You realize I once cursed someone to never win a coin toss, right? That’s a silly curse. What’s going on with you is no laughing matter.”

  I sat up. “It is a little bit funny though.”

  She sat down on the bed next to me. “Tell me everything, Wendy. From the beginning.”

  I sighed. “Okay. It started three years ago, on a cold night in March. I remember not being able to sleep that night. I felt so restless. I snuck out of bed and went to the den, where I could pace without waking you. That’s when it happened. The transformation was so painful, but I didn’t scream, because I didn’t want to wake you. Then I woke up on the floor, with the sun shining in through the window. On the desk was the first ten pages of my . . . Well . . . ”

  “The first ten pages of your novel.”

  I nodded.

  “That makes sense. I thought something was off about it when I read it.”

  “What do you mean, something was off?”

  “It’s not your voice! When you transform, you’re not really yourself. You are, but you aren’t. So when you wrote your novel, you weren’t really you.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “It’s just that the novel is so good! I never thought I could write something like that. And then this curse happened and . . . ”

  “It’s not you, though.”

  “Trust me, I debated that for so long. But the more I transformed, the more I wrote, and the more the story came together and I . . . I gave in. I started typing up the manuscript. When it was done, I sent it to a few agents. So many of them wanted it, and you have no idea how good it felt, to be wanted. To be talented.”

  She said nothing, but I could still hear her opinion. It’s not you, though. I know.

  “Anyway. The book is going to market next week. It’s too late now.”

  We sat in silence for a moment. Charlie let the silence last just long enough that the weight of my words began to weigh on me. She was always good at doing that.

  “When did you figure out what you were transforming into?”

  “I had suspicions. One day I set up a hand mirror on my desk. The next time I transformed, I was able to catch a glimpse of myself—”

  “How could you see yourself? Pens don’t have eyes.”

  “Oh, so now the witch is going to lecture me on the things a magical, sentient pen can or cannot do?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Continue.”

  I shrugged. “No, that’s about it. I looked into the mirror and I saw a pen, writing on the desk all by itself. I don’t remember much else from that transformation. Memories from my pen form are . . . few and far between.”

  Charlie nodded. “Do you write outside of your pen form anymore?”

  I pulled my knees up to my chest and held onto them. “No. I haven’t written any of my own stuff in a couple of years.”

  “Do you ever think about going back to that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Charlie nodded again and pulled me close to her. I was so lucky to have a wonderful wife like her, who was doing her best to understand the situation. How many other people would react this well to finding out their spouse was a werepen?

  “So, do you want me to break the curse?”

  My eyes widened, and I twisted in her arms so I could look at her face. “What? You could do that?”

  “Well, yeah.” She shrugged. “I mean, probably. All curses have something that can break them. I would have to do some research, but I’m sure I could figure it out.”

  I was silent. I didn’t have to be a werepen anymore. I should be thrilled! But what would I gain by breaking the curse? I wasn’t hurting anyone. Agents never cared about the stories I wanted to tell. Only Charlie ever seemed to care about my stories. Now, the stories my pen form was writing? Everyone loved those.

  I was a writer. Could I exist if no one cared about my writing?

  Could I really be a writer if I was just publishing someone else’s work in my name?

  “This is difficult for you, isn’t it?” Charlie’s voice broke through my train of thought.

  “I don’t even know why this is so hard.” I nestled my head into Charlie’s chest. “I want to tell my stories. I do. But . . . ”

  “No buts. Tell your stories, Wendy. Tell them and make the world listen. You don’t need to be a sentient pen for one night a month to be good at the craft. You think I turned into a sentient wand to get good at magic?”

  I chuckled. “I don’t know; did you?”

  “No!” She laughed and tousled my hair. “Your stories are good. You’ll be fine, I promise.”

  “Thank you, Charlie.”

  She kissed my forehead. “Call in sick today. You need to start writing your next book.”

  Charlie stood up and began to leave the bedroom.

  “Charlie . . . What if no one likes my next book?”

  She smiled. “Will you like it? Because if you like it, you won’t be the only one.”

  Then she was gone.

  Avery Montavon (he/him) is a software developer by day, writer by night from Chicago, IL. In his free time, he enjoys watching sports and playing video games. Sometimes he can be spotted tweeting random nonsense as @ThatKidBanana.

  Scrawls of Squid Ink

  D.A. Xiaolin Spires

  Ziyu laid the offering at the altar, watching the incense smoke creep upwards into the sky through the open window before taking the large pizza pie back to her best friend Jingfei. They sat down cross-legged on the tile floor, basking their hands in the steam to keep warm in Taipei’s cold, humid winter.

  “Didn’t you say your grandma doesn’t like pizza,” said Jingfei. “You said that she mentioned cheese tastes like eating car tires.”

  “I’m sure she can take the cheese off,” said Ziyu. She got up, walked back to the altar, and inhaled the aromatic incense as she closed the window and rubbed her palms together. “It’s not like she won’t have hands in the afterlife. Besides, once the cheese reaches her in the spirit world, we don’t know how it transforms. Maybe it tastes more like tofu then.”

  Ziyu sat down, picked up a slice, which drooped down like a dog’s tongue. Hot, cheesy oil dribbled onto the ground. She blew on her slice before taking a large bite. Dark sauce squirted into her mouth.

  “It’s hot!” said Jingfei.

  “Too late,” grumbled Ziyu, making strange noises with her mouth. She was doing the reverse blow, while attempting to chew at the same time. Steam rose up into the air from her mouth, spindly tendrils like the incense. “The roof of my mouth’s all burnt up now.”

  “Let me see,” said Jingfei.

  Ziyu opened her mouth to reveal her gums full of black smear.

  “I can’t see much. You got stuff all over your teeth. You should be careful. I’m pretty sure I read somewhere on Pizza Lala’s site that squid ink sauce takes longer to cool off than the original tomato sauce.”

  Jingfei went to get some jasmine tea, with her footsteps trailing out into the kitchen, while Ziyu, undeterred by the burn, took another bite. She looked back at the altar.

  “I hope you didn’t burn your tongue on a spirit slice of Seafood Delite, too,” said Ziyu to the photo that depicted Grandma beaming. Back then Grandma had a set of pearly whites, beautifully arched eyebrows and a head of lush, black hair. Her eyes were lucid, so shiny and black, they were like a limpid lake at night, reflecting the stars. As glossy as if painted on with glaze and ink
. So different than a month ago, when her hair had turned white, her teeth all but one had fallen and her lips were barely able to pull into a thin smile.

  Ziyu bit through the crunchy tangles of squid tentacles and the ring-like loops of cut cross-sections of the squid’s cooked body. It was chewy, just as she liked it, and a bit bitter.

  Jingfei came back with two cups, placing one stainless steel cup on the floor with a clink. Ziyu sipped this offering of tea, careful to not burn her tongue.

  Jingfei sat with her own cup in her hands. She held onto it, transfixed, not drinking. Her pupils moved along the perimeter of the large disc of dough that was steaming before her. Ziyu noticed the wariness in her eyes.

  “There’s something about the way these toppings are arranged,” said Jingfei, entranced, mumbling to herself.

  “Huh?” muttered Ziyu, in the middle of a bite. Ziyu stared at the pizza, at the confetti pieces of seaweed, the smattering of green jalapeño coins, the squid bits and pieces of white fish, submerged in the black and yellow sea of sauce and bubbling cheese. She shrugged. “I don’t—”

  “Nothing, nothing,” said Jingfei, cutting her off, distracted. She blew gently on the pizza, letting the steam flow towards the cabinet opposite her that held Ziyu’s grandma’s antiques. It fogged up the glass.

  Just as Jingfei reached to grab a slice, she gasped.

  Ziyu was busy extracting a tentacle from the back of her throat, when she heard Jingfei react. She looked down, following Jingfei’s gaze. The ink was moving, collecting and reforming.

  “What the—” she started to say, but her voice croaked when a jalapeño made its way down her tongue, the heat of its spice causing her to erupt into coughs.

  Her eyes watered and tears flowed down her face. She smudged them with a greasy finger. Ziyu was strangely silent.

  When she finally peered at the object of Ziyu’s held gaze, she gasped as well.

  The squid ink had rearranged itself into piles differentiated into a series of zhuyinfuhao, the Chinese alphabet used mostly for spelling and as a pronunciation guide. It looked like a wonky keyboard, one where the zhuyinfuhao were not collected into typographically clean letters, but bleared and smeared splotches of the letter forms, all black blurred. It even had five strokes denoting tone at the quadrant of the pizza near Jingfei’s knee, though the streaks were a bit wobbly. Even if the markings were all smudged up, it was clear to Ziyu that this was a form of communication.