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rasika on *A Pen’s Story* I am a pen, having no arms or legs one who cannot do anything except be turned about on my head to spurt ink about a piece of paper.I used to lie alone and destitute in a store like all the other pens till one day my master Rasika found me.. I became a valuable instrument in her gand.I felt important as My master loved me as she understood the value I hold. A sleek, golden-Black ballpoint pen with a subtle Golden band, wasn’t just a writing tool; but a silent confidant, a keeper of her secrets. I had been with my master through the chaotic scribbles of middle school notes, the heartfelt diaries of life’s angst, and the carefully crafted essays that marked her educational journey .I remember the day my master first got me , the joy in her face was ineffable, she used me happily and took care of me though not understanding my value but in a while she understood that a pen is a powerful tool,. It can capture one’s thoughts, dreams, and even fears, even beyond that my master says that what I write cannot be undone. I remember one day my master lost me at college, she went and almost half way home she remembered me and rushed back to find me lying lonely at the desk, she found me and I cannot describe how happy she was to find me. My master doesn’t want to loose me at all , even sometimes when my ink fails , she refills the ink to use me once again as I had been with her through the hardest of times. I feel now that for my master I am not just a pen but a narrative of her existence and a keeper of her secrets.
Maryam Sayyed on *A Pen’s Story* I am a pen, having no arms or legs one who cannot do anything except be turned about on my head to spurt ink about a piece of paper.I used to lie alone and destitute in a store like all the other pens till one day my master Rasika found me.. I became a valuable instrument in her gand.I felt important as My master loved me as she understood the value I hold. A sleek, golden-Black ballpoint pen with a subtle Golden band, wasn’t just a writing tool; but a silent confidant, a keeper of her secrets. I had been with my master through the chaotic scribbles of middle school notes, the heartfelt diaries of life’s angst, and the carefully crafted essays that marked her educational journey .I remember the day my master first got me , the joy in her face was ineffable, she used me happily and took care of me though not understanding my value but in a while she understood that a pen is a powerful tool,. It can capture one’s thoughts, dreams, and even fears, even beyond that my master says that what I write cannot be undone. I remember one day my master lost me at college, she went and almost half way home she remembered me and rushed back to find me lying lonely at the desk, she found me and I cannot describe how happy she was to find me. My master doesn’t want to loose me at all , even sometimes when my ink fails , she refills the ink to use me once again as I had been with her through the hardest of times. I feel now that for my master I am not just a pen but a narrative of her existence and a keeper of her secrets.