The Pen and the Price

Many have heard the legend of Excalibur—the sword in the stone, pulled free by one man among thousands. But to be frank, that story is nothing more than myth. Just an old tale spun by an even older, possibly unwashed man who likely lacked the strength to wield a sword himself.

No, the real story begins much later. Somewhere in October, in a time not far from our own, a woman would go on to write one of the greatest stories ever told. Her name was Francesca Fawn.

She was dazzling—tall, with shoulder-length dark hair and the presence of someone who could stop a room mid-breath. At six-foot-two, people often mistook her for a model, but Francesca, a fierce feminist, couldn’t fathom confining herself to such a career, no matter how beautiful or profitable it might have been. Doing Onlyfans or any of tthe sort just want in her cards—she had to much respect for herself for such. She was a beacon to women everywhere: kind, reserving, intelligent, and above all, powerful—with words as her greatest weapon.

On a sunny Sunday afternoon, Francesca had just completed the second part of her novel, No One’s World, inspired by James Brown’s classic It’s a Man’s World. Immediately, it had sparked controversy—many men rejected it straight out of the gate, and to her surprise, even some women. But Francesca had paid it no mine. It was her story, not theres—a good author wrote what they wanted, not what people wanted them to write. However, Francesca had always felt that she was going nowhere with her stories, that no one was taking her seriously as the great writer that she was.

As she sat in the living room of her parents old house, one of the picture frames would fall from the wall—behind it was a small latch, no, a safe.

Francesca stoped sipping on the mint mojito she’d made and rested on the side table of her couch. She then stood up and walked over to it.

It needed a nomination but what, she wondered.

She tried:

04-12-67 (her mohter’s birthday.)

11-18-62 )her fathers birthday.)

None of them worked.

All that was left was her birthday now.

06-27- 95… THE SAFE OPENED.

By Francescas surprise, there was no money, no letters. In the safe was just a pen. Though, not just any pen, but a sparkling, glowing pen—something in remincent to a wizards wand.

She went back into the living room and sat at a table where all her books and journals rested. She pulled out a sheet of paper, pressed the pen against it. A surge of energy flowed throw her like a shot of andrenaline. Her mind radiated with thousands of ideas a writer had never written before.

And then it had hit Francesca like a light—the ultimate story—story if stories.

It all flowed from the pen and onto the paper like water. Page after page, getting better with each turn. And then it would come to triumphant end. In Francescas hands now rsted the manuscript of manuscripts. With it alone, she would now be recognized as more than just a great writer, but one of the greatest writers of all time.

Francesca immidiately called her editor, but as usual there was no reply. He wasn’t the kind to respond right away to things, It usually took a day or two, but it couldn’t wait. Francesca felt that what she had was in comparison to a lottery ticket. She needed to cash in on it now.

She packed her manuscript in a safe compartment and threw into her Christian dior bag. Francesca was out in a flash, but soon as she’d hit the street, she found herself in a stand still. The streets were packed—thousands crowded in for a football game, all packed like a can of sardines. Francesca, severely claustrophobic, had no intention of wading through a human sea. She remembered too well the last time—late for a writing class and trapped in a muggy, shoulder-to-shoulder crowd. No room to breath, no room to think. She'd escaped only after unleashing a flurry of profanity that she somewhat wasn’t proud of. It wasn’t her forte being raised in a religious family.

Nevertheless, Francesca jumped out of her car and proceeded making her way down the nearest alleyway—its surface layered with uneven brick, the walls covered in cringeworthy graffiti. Francesca winced at the sight of poorly written cursive. As a writer, there was nothing she hated more than butchered handwriting. But the decline of penmanship was society’s fault, not the artist’s, she felt Schools had already taken away incursive from children and books were more of an aquired taste rather then the things plastered over social media. Francesca never understood it, but such is life…

Francesca would make her way down the alley way without any means of protection—no martial arts training, no pepper spray, no taser—it wasn’t the smartest choice. But her manuscript couldn’t wait. At any cost, she had to know what her editor thought about it the manuscript.

She was barely a minute into the alley. She just needed to make it through and her editors place would be to the left, but before she could reach the end, a giant rat dashed across the sole of her foot, its wet fur and slimy tail grazing like a freshly dipped paintbrush. Most women would’ve screamed. Francesca didn’t flinch. She quickened her pace, the sound of the football crowd still echoing behind the wall of it.

She was almost there.

And then—she heard it.

A voice. Faint at first, then clearer as the crowd momentarily quieted. The kind of silence everyone was at the edge of their seats in anticipation of who would win the game—the home team or the visitors. It was anyones game, but it would seem that Francesca had her own to deal with.

“You know,” said the voice in a crackling tone. “That’s my pen you have… and I want it back.”

Francesca froze. No one knew about the pen. Not her editor. Not even her ex-husband, who she swore was the spawn of Satan. She hadn’t prayed for years, but she still thanked God every day they’d only had one child. And thankfully that child was grown now—they hadn’t seen each other since then.

“What are you talking about?” Francesca snapped. “Show yourself!”

From beneath Francesca a pile of garbage, a figure emerged—frail, dirty, skeletal. Flesh clung to bone like it had forgotten how to hold on.

Francesca jumped.

“Jesus, have you been there the whole time?

The figure didn’t answer. Francesca only saw the back—thinning gray hair, hunched shoulders, bearing a chuckle that sounded all too familiar.

“Mom?” Francesca whispered.

“In the flesh,” she said, turning around with a wicked grin.

“I—I thought you were…”

“Dead?” her mother finished. “Maybe in your dreams, but not here. Not now.”

“But I saw them burry you…”

“And do you really think that was me?”

Francesca thought about it. She wasn’t sure of it.

Her eyes flicked toward Francesca’s purse, as if she had X-ray vision.

“Don’t submit it…”said Francesca’s mom.

Francesca held her purse tightly.

“Out of my way. Far as I’m concerned your still dead to me,” she said.

Francesca’s mom shook her head with dissapointment.

“You don’t understand. You submit that manuscript, then things will take a dark turn for you.”

“Says the one that faked her own death. Trust me, if theere’s any reason for my dark turn, its you,” Francesca said, brushing past.

Before she could leave her mother grabbed her by the arm. It felt cold and rough like sand paper.

“Francesca… I wont ask again. Give me the pen.”

Francesca clutched her Christian Dior bag. “Get off me!”

“Francesca, don’t be stupid. You have know idea the magnitude of what that pen can actually do. . Life hasn’t been quite the same after the pen and I parted ways.”

And then it hit Francesca to what her moom did. It all made sense now. The twisted not in her stomach said it was true.

“I’m not naive mother… I’m very aware of what the pen can do, which leads me to the question… Why did you do it?”

“Don’t say it,” her mother growled.

Francesca hesitated. But after 15 years, the words finally slipped out—the sick feeling she had felt—the very feeling that seeped into her soul like a poison as time went on.

“Because of your selfishness, Dad died that night. You wrote him out of fucking existence! But withis pen I can change all of that!”

A tear rolled down her mother’s face, carving a clean trail through the speckles of dirt on the concrete.

“It wont work…” said her mother. “It never undo’s the things that have been written… You can hide the words, you can burn them even, but the memories of its origin forever carry on,” she said. “

“I don’t want to hear your excuses!” Francesca snapped.

On one side of the wall, the crowd roared in joy. The home team must had one—thousands singing the hopme team anthem in unison. But for Francesca and her mother, only silence and pain stood. Francesca then pulled out her notebook and began writing like a mad man.

“Wait—what are you doing?” her mother pleaded.

“What I should have done 10 minutes ago of knowing that you were alive.”

“Francesca…”

Just then, a drunk couple stumbled into the alley all over each other as if they were already back in their hotel room. Francesca’s mom glared at them—her look so venomous, and with it they had sobered instantly.

“Okay, okay!” said the man. “We’re leaving… Jesus… Doesn’t hurt to have a little fun sometimes old lady…”

“What the hells her problem… Old hag acts like she owns the whole damn city,” muttered the woman.

As the coupe left, Francesca’s mother would right up on her, constraining her wrist from writing anything else.

TO BE CONTINUED

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