"Does No One Want Blue Ink?"
by Noor Sager, Telling Room Author
I live my life in flashes of light. From my creation in a dark, dreary factory, I’ve only seen the world in small glimpses. Sitting beside my brothers and sisters on the conveyor belt, I only see the people piecing me together. When I’m lucky I can catch a glimpse of a sunbeam sneaking through the crack in the back door.
My whole world has been this factory but I know there’s more out there. I’ve heard the workers talk about going outside. Taking walks. Meeting with people. Eating.
I don’t think I am able to do those things. I have no legs to walk with. No mouth to speak or eat with. None of my other siblings have legs or mouths. Just the workers.
I do not know what I am but I think one day I will find out. Today is the day we’re getting shipped out to… somewhere. I do not know where this somewhere is yet. I hope it’s somewhere with lights. Shiny and bright and plentiful. Somewhere where I’ll know more about who I am. Where everything will make sense.
Thoughts of where I might be sent float through my mind. Somewhere warm… bright… as different as can be from the factory I was born in.
If there’s more to the world than this room then there must be places that are flooded with lights and laughter. That’s where I want to go.
As I move farther along the conveyor belt, I hear my siblings chattering excitedly.
“The end!” They shout. “We’re almost at the end!”
I am soon consumed by the infectious excitement of my siblings as I shout along with them. We’re so close…
A gloved hand reaches out and I am lifted off the conveyor, weightless in the air, and for a moment I think, This is it! I’ll be sent off somewhere special! Somewhere amazing and full of opportunities! I’ll be able to be who I was meant to be there in that special somewhere.
Someone brings out a small but beautiful wooden case, rectangular and covered in elaborate carvings from top to bottom. I can’t tell whether they’re letters or not but it’s undeniable how lovely it looks. The case opens, revealing pillowy insides, with a small elastic band sewn in.
I am tucked in behind the band, sinking into the softness of my new home. The band presses down on my middle and as motionless as I’ve always been, the band still feels like it’s holding me back. Constricting my sleek and smooth form. Soon after, two of my brothers are squished beside me, much too close for comfort in the already cramped space.
Then the lid snaps shut and darkness engulfs us.
Questions, one after another pop into my head; fear and doubt threaten to creep in, encouraged by the endless shadows. Were we to stay here? For how long? Forever? Why? The band is too tight, too constricting. If I had lungs, I’d be heaving for whatever scraps of breath I could get. I’m sinking far too deep into the cushioning. What if I sink so far in, I get lost? I’d never be able to do anything if I was lost in this box for the rest of eternity.
I keep quiet though. Keep these thoughts and doubts in the confines of my mind.
Surely I’m overreacting. Surely this is just part of the process. Soon the lid will pop open and I’ll be in my perfect somewhere. It just might take a while. A little darkness might not be the worst thing. Surely.
I just want to find my place in the world. My purpose. Curiosity fills me just as much as the ink that flows through my metallic body. There is something I am meant to do in this world. I know it. I can’t feel the same way that people do but there’s something brimming in me; something that refuses to be hidden away in a box, no matter how pretty and ornate it is made to be.
As our box moves from place to place I wonder how long it’s been since the lid first shut. Days? Weeks? Months? How long must I stay here? Quickly what I thought might be a home has turned into a trap. A cage.
From my factory to my cage I’ve seen and done nothing.
I want to see more. I want to do more. I want to be useful. One day I will be. One day I will make a mark on the pages of something vital. But first I must survive my time in the darkness.
My brothers tell me to be glad that we are not trapped alone; we are together somewhere safe and comfortable. Is it ungrateful to long for more than the plush insides of my cage? Is it even comfort if I do not have a choice in it? The band that holds me and my brothers down won’t allow for any of us to leave even if we could. I’m glad my brothers can find comfort here but I want more.
The first time the case opens, I think, finally! This is it! This must be my perfect somewhere! My time in darkness is surely over.
The first thing I see is a young man, bored as can be, with long bangs covering the top of his eyes. He looks over the three of us, hmm’ing and huh’ing. He reaches out and grabs my brother out of the box. He stares at my brother for a moment. Then with a shrug of his shoulders, he snaps the band back and my brother is back by my side as the darkness surrounds us once more.
Just like that.
A moment of thought.
A glance or two.
And then the lid shuts again.
That’s all we are worth.
But… that something brimming in me… it burns with the need to be seen. To be needed. Wanted. To fulfill a purpose, so ingrained in me it may as well be carved on my side. To be in that special somewhere where my worth is seen as clear as crystal.
There’s got to be someone that will see that something in me. Someone that will give me more than a glance.
For weeks I see slivers of the freedom I so want. Bright lights would flood my vision and a new face would peer in. Watching. Examining. Judging. Trying to see if the pretty box has something just as eye-catching inside. A dozen times my hope rises at the possibility of finally fulfilling my purpose but a dozen times I am dismissed.
I can not understand what is so wrong with me that I am not worth more than a glance. Is it the ink? I wonder. Does no one want blue ink? Is that the problem?
If I could change from blue to red or black or even green I would in a heartbeat. If I could just press down my clicker and change whatever it is that’s so wrong with me I would. I don’t care what I have to fix to be worth more than a glance but I will do it. As long as I can be free, be useful, I will do it.
My brothers say I must be patient. “A dozen times we have been overlooked but maybe it takes a dozen and one times to find someone in need of a pen as passionate as you.”
The stubbornness in me wanted to argue with my brothers. Wanted to ask, “How can you still be so hopeful?” But I don’t. Instead, I freeze at the word I’ve never heard before.
Pen.
“What’s a pen?” I ask but I think I already know.
My eldest brother seems confused at the question but he answers. “I am a pen. You are a pen. Have you never heard the workers?”
I try to remember if I’d ever heard anyone say that to me before but I can’t. All I’d ever listened to at the factory were the tales of the outside. I’d never thought to listen to anything else they said.
I’m a pen.
“What does a pen do?” If I’m a pen then I must have been made for a reason. I must have a purpose.
“A pen helps people write whatever they please.” My brother says.
That’s my purpose. That’s my answer. That’s my use.
One day a writer will pick me up and I’ll glide across a page, writing something that they need to be written. One day I’ll fulfill this purpose I’ve been given.
Until then I will wait in the darkness. And wait I do.
Endlessly in my cage, I sit and wonder about the writer I will one day meet.
And then finally, my box opens once more. I hear her voice before I see her face.
“I’ve gotta find something special. I’ve lost my last three pens, if I buy something really professional-looking, I’ll have to keep better track of it. It’d be a waste of money if I didn’t.” She sounds boisterous, laughing with whoever she’s speaking to.
She turns to face us head-on and her grinning face greets me and my brothers. Her eyes run over the three of us. She reads the price tag and nods to herself, humming something I can’t help but hope is approving.
“I think I found something. It’s a pack of three and I’ll be able to use the box for something else later. What do you think?”
Someone leans into my sight and I see them nod. She nods again and I want to cheer.
The lid clicks shut once more but this time I feel us moving. We are moving! Finally, someone I can help! Even though nothing has changed in my familiar cage — still dark as ever with the same soft cushioning — I feel different. The darkness doesn’t feel nearly as all-consuming. The hope not nearly so futile.
Soon the lid opens once more and I feel as if I might burst in joy as for the first time, I am greeted by a familiar face. The woman runs her hand at the edge of the case for a quiet moment, thoughtful as she looks at me and my brothers. Then suddenly, she’s looking at me. Just me. Her focus is solely on me and hope winds through me, from tip to clicker.
With a nod to herself she reaches down and I am picked out from my brothers by the woman. She chose me. She chose me. Me. Someone actually chose me…
She presses down on my clicker once and then twice. She turns me this way and that, twirls me around a few times until she hums in satisfaction. She brings out a cheerful yellow journal, covered in stickers and endearingly amateur doodles but what stands out most is how well-worn and well-loved it is. The edges of the cover look stained, there are colorful tabs sticking out in every direction, and some mixture of tape and hot glue keep the spine together. Despite how in shambles it is, it’s still here.
The woman opens the journal to an empty page and settles down at her desk.
Pressing down gentle as can be, she scribbles a title on the top and for the first time in my life, I feel useful. Needed. If I could smile I wouldn’t be able to stop.
An hour passes by and the woman continues to write. Word after word, stroke after stroke, comma after comma.
I’ve only been out of my box for such a short time and already I feel more joy than I ever have before. In the time I’ve been able to write, my body of metal and my blood of ink has turned into so much more. I’ve turned into so much more. From pen to the vessel from which life and worlds anew are born onto the page.
It feels… right.
Like a missing puzzle piece has slid into its rightful place.
As if some troublesome question I couldn’t quite ask has been answered.
In the midst of my contentment, I almost don’t notice I’ve stopped moving. The journal is shut and fear stomps out the warmth I felt. My use is over… she’s going to put me back in the box. Surely now that she doesn’t need me, I’ll be back in the darkness, back to the sinking feeling and too tight band.
Before I can be sucked into my thoughts, I am carried high above the desk, the journal, the ground even. Higher than I’ve ever been, before being gently tucked away behind the woman’s ear, warmed by her auburn hair. Whatever part of me that may have still been clinging to my fear and upset soon evaporates.
How can I possibly keep any of that inside me when my awe at the new vantage point takes up so much room in my small body. Everything below looks so different from all the way up here. So small when I know just a moment ago it was so big. Much bigger than I. Yet here I am and there they are.
In not even a day my perspective has changed so drastically. I never want to go back to my box. I can’t believe my luck that I was the first of my brothers to be able to experience this. From all the way up here I see the world in a new light.
To think that all I once knew was my dark and dreary factory. And now here I am. To think that I once only had the walls of my cage. But here I am.
Here I am…
It hits me in a rush that I’ve done it. I’ve found my purpose. I’ve left my mark on the pages of something vital. I’ve finally been seen.
The woman tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, brushing against my side. She’s putting her journal away in her desk drawer, humming along to a song I’ve never heard.
She sees me. She chose me.
She took me out of my cage. She saw my worth.
Gratitude burns through me and I know down to my core that I will use every drop of ink I have in me to bring whatever comes to her mind to life on the pages of that cheerful journal without a single regret to spare.
I’ve found my perfect somewhere. It’s her.
This piece is being re-published as a part of our new The Voice of a Pride series. Learn more about this series here.
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