“My bag hit the floor, spilling overpriced books and pens across the shiny floor. My pens! My glorious pens rolled everywhere.”

“Racing up the wide staircase, I barreled through the double doors and smacked right into a brick wall.Stumbling backward, my arms flailed like a cracked-out crossing guard. My over-packed messenger bag slipped, pulling me to one side. My hairflew it front of my face, a sheet of auburn that obscured everything as I teetered dangerously.Oh dear God, I was going down. There was no stopping it. Visions of broken necks danced in my head. This was going to suck so—Something strong and hard went around my waist, stopping my free fall. My bag hit the floor, spilling overpriced books and pens across the shinyfloor. My pens! My glorious pens rolled everywhere. A second later I was pressed against the wall.The wall was strangely warm.The wall chuckled.“Whoa,” a deep voice said. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“I am a creature of my pen. My pen is the best of me.”

“I plan on leaving my mark on this world, in ink, with a pen spill that’ll make all the oil spills combined look like literature.”

“My pen.’ Funny, I wrote that without noticing. ‘The torch’, ‘the paper’, but ‘my pen’. That shows what writing means to me, I guess. My pen is a pipe from my heart to the paper. It’s about the most important thing I own.”

“Behold the power of my pen”