i am pen essay

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. » Autobiography Examples » Autobiography of a Pen

Essay on Autobiography of a Pen for Students of All Ages : 2 Examples

Here we brought you two essays on “Autobiography of a Pen” – unique and captivating pieces that offer an exciting perspective on the life of a pen. In these essay, you will encounter a narrator who is not just any ordinary pen, but a living being, sharing its experiences and journey with you.

With an engaging and relatable voice, the pen shares its story from the moment it was manufactured to the present day. It takes you on a journey through its life, sharing its thoughts, feelings, and emotions along the way. You will witness the pen’s journey from a mere instrument to a beloved companion to its owner.

As you read through the essay , you will gain a newfound appreciation for the role that a pen plays in our lives. From recording memories and documenting important information to being an essential tool for education, the pen is an indispensable part of our daily routines.

Through the eyes of the pen, you will gain an insider’s view of the writing process, including the joys and frustrations that come with being a writer’s constant companion. You will also discover the importance of caring for a pen and the impact that it can have on its longevity.

In conclusion, “Autobiography of a Pen” is a remarkable essay that will leave you with a new perspective on the power and importance of this humble writing tool. So, join us on this exciting journey as the pen shares its life with you.

• Autobiography of a Pen

Autobiography of a Pen 1 –

Hello everyone! I am a humble pen and I would like to share my story with you all.

I was born in a small factory, surrounded by my other pen siblings. We were all lined up, waiting for our chance to be molded and crafted into the writing instruments we were meant to be. My turn finally came and I was filled with excitement as I was molded into my final form.

I was given a sleek black barrel with a shiny silver clip, and a smooth writing tip that would glide across the page. I was so proud of what I had become, and I couldn’t wait to be put to use.

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Essay Curve

Essay on I Am A Pen – Examples, 10 Lines to 1200 Words

Essay on I Am A Pen: In a world filled with technology and digital communication, the humble pen often gets overlooked. However, the pen is a powerful tool that has been used for centuries to convey thoughts, ideas, and emotions. In this essay, we will explore the significance of the pen and its role in shaping our lives. From signing important documents to expressing creativity through writing, the pen holds a special place in our hearts and minds. Join me as we delve into the world of the pen and discover its true power.

Table of Contents

I Am A Pen Essay Writing Tips

1. Begin by introducing yourself as a pen. You can start by stating your purpose and how you play a significant role in people’s lives.

2. Describe your physical appearance. Talk about your sleek body, your ink cartridge, and your nib that allows you to create beautiful strokes on paper.

3. Discuss your journey as a pen. Talk about the different hands that have held you, the various words you have written, and the emotions you have helped to express.

4. Share some of your favorite memories as a pen. Maybe you have been used to write love letters, important documents, or creative stories. Reflect on how these experiences have shaped you.

5. Talk about the power of words and how you, as a pen, have the ability to turn thoughts and ideas into tangible form. Discuss the importance of writing and how it can impact people’s lives.

6. Reflect on the responsibility that comes with being a pen. Discuss the importance of using your power for good and spreading positivity through your words.

7. Share some tips on how to take care of a pen. Talk about the importance of keeping your ink fresh, storing you properly, and handling you with care to ensure longevity.

8. Discuss the evolution of pens over time. Talk about how technology has changed the way people write and how pens have adapted to these changes.

9. Share some personal anecdotes or stories about your experiences as a pen. Maybe you have been lost and found, or maybe you have been passed down through generations. Reflect on how these experiences have shaped your identity.

10. Conclude by emphasizing the importance of writing and the role that pens play in helping people express themselves. Encourage readers to appreciate the power of words and the significance of the humble pen in the writing process.

By following these tips, you can write a compelling essay on being a pen that will captivate readers and make them appreciate the art of writing.

Essay on I Am A Pen in 10 Lines – Examples

1. I am a pen, a simple writing instrument that holds great power. 2. I have the ability to convey thoughts, ideas, and emotions onto paper. 3. I come in various shapes, sizes, and colors to suit different preferences. 4. I am a tool that has been used for centuries to record history, literature, and personal stories. 5. I am essential for students, professionals, and artists to express themselves. 6. I can be used for note-taking, journaling, sketching, and signing documents. 7. I require ink to function, which can be in the form of cartridges, refills, or disposable pens. 8. I am portable and convenient, making me a handy tool to have on hand at all times. 9. I can be personalized with custom engravings or designs to make me unique. 10. I am a symbol of creativity, communication, and the power of written words.

Sample Essay on I Am A Pen in 100-180 Words

I am a pen, a simple tool that holds the power to create, inspire, and communicate. With me, words flow effortlessly onto paper, forming stories, poems, and ideas that can change the world. I am a vessel for thoughts and emotions, capturing the essence of the writer’s soul with every stroke.

I am a pen, a silent observer of the world around me. I witness the joy of a child learning to write their name for the first time, the frustration of a student struggling to find the right words, and the passion of an artist sketching their masterpiece. I am a companion in times of solitude, a source of comfort in times of chaos.

I am a pen, a symbol of creativity and expression. I am a reminder that words have the power to heal, to inspire, and to connect us all. I am a humble instrument, yet I hold the potential to make a lasting impact on the world. I am a pen, and I am proud of the role I play in shaping the stories of humanity.

Short Essay on I Am A Pen in 200-500 Words

I am a pen, a simple yet powerful tool that has been used by humans for centuries to communicate, create, and express themselves. I may seem like just an ordinary object, but I hold the power to convey thoughts, emotions, and ideas onto paper.

As a pen, I have the ability to bring words to life, to transform blank pages into stories, poems, letters, and so much more. With a simple stroke of my tip, I can create lines and shapes that form letters and words, allowing people to express themselves in ways that are both personal and profound.

I have been used by writers, poets, students, and professionals alike to document their thoughts, record their memories, and share their knowledge with others. I have been there to witness the joy of a child learning to write their name for the first time, the excitement of a student finishing their final exam, and the satisfaction of an author completing their manuscript.

I have traveled far and wide, from classrooms to boardrooms, from coffee shops to libraries, always ready to help those in need of a way to put their thoughts onto paper. I have been passed from hand to hand, shared among friends, and treasured by those who understand the power of words and the importance of communication.

I have seen the impact that words can have on people, how they can inspire, motivate, comfort, and connect us to one another. I have witnessed the power of a heartfelt letter, the beauty of a well-written poem, and the importance of clear and concise communication in our everyday lives.

I am a pen, a humble instrument that has played a vital role in human history, from the signing of important documents to the writing of great works of literature. I may be small and unassuming, but I am a symbol of creativity, expression, and the enduring power of words.

In a world that is increasingly digital and fast-paced, I remain a constant reminder of the beauty and simplicity of pen and paper. I am a reminder that sometimes the best way to communicate is through the written word, to take the time to put pen to paper and let our thoughts flow freely.

So, the next time you pick up a pen, remember the power that it holds, the stories it can tell, and the impact it can have on those around you. I am a pen, and I am proud to be a part of the rich tapestry of human communication and expression.

Essay on I Am A Pen in 1000-1500 Words

I am a pen, a simple yet powerful tool that has been used by humans for centuries to communicate, create, and express themselves. I may seem like just a small object, but I hold the power to convey thoughts, ideas, and emotions onto paper, leaving a lasting impact on those who read my words. In this essay, I will explore the significance of being a pen and the role I play in the lives of people around the world.

As a pen, I am a symbol of creativity and expression. When held in the hand of a writer, I become a conduit for their thoughts and ideas to flow onto the page. Whether it is a poem, a story, a letter, or a journal entry, I am there to capture the words and bring them to life. The act of writing with a pen is a deeply personal and intimate experience, as the writer pours their heart and soul onto the page, leaving a piece of themselves behind in the words they write.

I am also a tool of communication, allowing people to connect with one another through written words. In a world where technology has made communication instantaneous and impersonal, the act of writing with a pen brings a sense of authenticity and sincerity to the message being conveyed. Whether it is a love letter, a thank you note, or a heartfelt apology, the words written with a pen carry a sense of thoughtfulness and care that cannot be replicated by typing on a keyboard.

In addition to being a tool of creativity and communication, I am also a symbol of education and knowledge. From a young age, children are taught to write with a pen as a means of learning how to communicate effectively and express their thoughts and ideas. As they grow older, the act of writing with a pen becomes a vital skill that is used in every aspect of their academic and professional lives. Whether it is taking notes in class, writing essays, or signing important documents, the pen plays a crucial role in the process of learning and acquiring knowledge.

Furthermore, I am a symbol of power and authority. Throughout history, the pen has been used as a tool of influence and persuasion, as those who wield it have the ability to shape opinions, inspire change, and leave a lasting impact on society. From the signing of important documents such as the Declaration of Independence to the writing of influential works of literature, the pen has been a powerful instrument in the hands of those who seek to make a difference in the world.

As a pen, I am also a symbol of permanence and legacy. Unlike the fleeting nature of digital communication, the words written with a pen have a sense of permanence that can be passed down through generations. Whether it is a family recipe, a handwritten letter, or a cherished diary, the words written with a pen hold a special significance that can be treasured for years to come. In this way, I am a vessel for preserving memories and creating a legacy that will endure long after the writer has passed.

In conclusion, I am more than just a simple writing instrument. I am a symbol of creativity, communication, education, power, and permanence. As a pen, I hold the power to convey thoughts, ideas, and emotions onto paper, leaving a lasting impact on those who read my words. I am a tool that connects people, preserves memories, and shapes the world in profound ways. I am a pen, and I am proud to play a small yet significant role in the lives of people around the world.

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A Day In the Life of My Pen

By jamie bernard, april 2005.

Life sucks, for I am a pen. I cannot sing, and I have no arms or legs. I cannot do anything except be turned about on my head to spurt ink about a piece of paper. I suppose I have it better than some. Not being a pencil, I do not grow blunt and do not have to be shoved in a sharpener every hour during use until I grow subject to dwarfism. Nor did God design for me to be born as one of those poor, destitute souls known as crayons: fat, short-lived, messy things destined to die up the nostrils of some wailing little shit.

But my life, my friends, still sucks. As I sit here in the darkness, I think what it would have been like to be the pen of William Shakespeare. I would be longer and suppler, with one of those beautiful feathers thrusting from my backside. I would be dabbled lightly into a jar of fine ink, instead of being stuffed with it at birth like turkey, and William would put me to his lips, just slightly, before he put me down to write. And oh, the things he’d write! The most beautiful things a human being has ever put to paper, flowing through his head and out of mine in a fine, black stream. And after a few hours of writing, going by as if they were minutes, he would put me away, carefully so not to bend my feather, in a fine wooden chest, so I could rest.

Such, my friends, is not my lot. I am currently in the greasy, stank clutches of a pale, slobbering boy-child named Jamie Bernard. I know this, because I’ve had to write his name above every crappy, error-ridden paper he’s had all year that he has been too lazy to put to a keyboard. Noble friends, I would rather be used to scratch the back of every 300-pound, inbred Broncos fan in Denver. The things I am forced to write (kicking and screaming, if I had legs to kick and a mouth to scream) are a travesty to the English language, to say the least. As of now I am, not in a pencil pouch or even a pocket, but in the itchy darkness of his backpack’s bottom, along with cookie crumbs, a shattered protractor, about a million-dollars’ worth of pennies, and countless forgotten homework assignments yellowing and scrunched upon themselves like accordions. If I had a nose, I’d say the whole thing smelt like failure.

He’s in his English class now, but I am not needed. His teacher is lecturing on a book he should have read, and now, as in all lectures, he’s sleeping. So, I took to my left at my brand-new companion, a red pen he borrowed yesterday from some other kid and forgot to give it back. Most of us other pens don’t like Reds, because they’re always used to go back to the stuff we’ve done and mark themselves all over, pointing out sloppiness and such as if they were better than us. But this guy seems scared and lonely, so I’ll say anything to cheer him up. And to make me forget what I’m being used for. “So, my friend, how’s it going?”

            “Not so good man, not so good at all. Who the hell puts his pens in a place like this, man?”

            “He does apparently. He doesn’t much care about the likes of us.”

            “Is that a rotten banana peel over there, under his math book?”

            “…Yep.”

            “Jesus Christ!”

            “Be easy, kind sir. It’s safe down here; it’s nice down here. At least we’re not being used. It’s always better down here than being used.”

            “Tell me, this last kid who used you, what did he write about?”

            “Well, you know, the usual. Conversations, and books he read, trigonometry and email addresses, things about his week.”

            “Well, this kid writes about boogers and pieces of cloth he thinks would taste like fish. He’s written a thirty-page plan on how to kidnap Ronal McDonald, and yesterday I think he tried to spell ‘because’ with a y.”

            “Oh dear.”

            “He’s insane, his grammar is terrible, his spelling is worse, and even right handed he’s able to smear our output across the page as if south pawed.”

            “Jesus. Listen man, I’m a veteran. I’ve been used to grade college essays, man. Been in the shit. But I don’t think I’ve ever been in any situation as scary as this.”

            “It’s alright. You see, it’s terrible, but it’s short. He’s managed to lose every other pen he’s ever had faster than he’s able to write with them. Nobody else stays here for more than two days max.”

            “Nobody else?”

            “I’ve been here for six months.”

            “…”

            “Life sucks, huh.”

            “Yep.”

            And then, in the middle of this conversation with this unfortunate red fellow in the cloth-formed nothingness, I heard a girl asking Him a question that half woke him from his slumber.

            “Excuse me, do you have a pen I could borrow?”

            “ Nurg? ”

            “I said: do you have a pen I could borrow?”

            “ Grackenshnark. ”

            “Thank you.”

And down, into that black nothingness, like a fat, blind shark swimming through the abyss, came the familiar pale, white talons of boy-child that had so often throttled me down to paper to spew forth his nonsense. And I prayed that he would pick me. It was well known to all pens that women took much better care of writing utensils than boys. If those fingers choose me, it would mean safety in a neat little pencil pouch forever more, of course, that damned monkey hand fumbles over to the red pen, and clutching him lightly, it begins to haul it up to felicity. Life really does suck.

            “Well, I guess life sometimes works out like that, huh?” he said.

            “That’s… that’s not fair! You’ve been here for just one day.”

            “well you know, this kind of things is pre-ordained, I think. Maybe it was destiny for me to be picked instead of you.”

            “Fuck thou, you crimson whoreson. I hope she uses you to clear wax from her ears!”

            “Thanks Jamie. Hey, aren’t you going to write down the assignment?”

            “ Blurgen. ”

            “You know, to study for the exam she just announced we’d have tomorrow.”

            “ zzzzzz.”

            “… Okay then.”

And then, more silence. A seeming eternity in blackness darker than the ink of my bowels, stewing in my own rage. And then third period is was over, and I was being carried to creative writing. The term to pay attention to in that is “writing”, for it is inevitable that he should find me soon, and hack me about his paper like a butcher’s knife at the whim of his teacher.

            “Okay guys, take out your pens and let’s begin our ten minutes of writing.”

Oh, joy. And back comes that hand, that filthy, five-fingered torture rack, squeezing through textbooks and wrinkling novels like a hairless tarantula in an effort to find something to scribble with. He searches and he searches and he searches, and just when I get hope that he will try to borrow another pen, he finds me. Up, up I go, to the light, and then I am turned around in working position, and he moves me to write… and nothing comes. I hold the ink inside as hard as I can, with the hopes that if he thinks I am dried out, he’ll throw me away. There’s a faint grunt of discontent, and then I am being held up to his face like a chicken drumstick.

            “Kill me now you ape, break me upon your knee, but I refuse to write another damn sentence to appease yo … arrrgh!” He shakes me up and down furiously, as if that would work with a pen, and then he puts me down to the page once more and begins scribbling up and down, up and down as hard as he can. This almost always works. I try to hold fast, try as hard as I can, but it is no use, and soon enough there is a blue stain on the edge of his page. And then those horrible ten minutes begin.

            Minute one: “Oh swell, at least you can spell your name right, you asinine prick. Oh, Twenty Ways to Burn Your Furniture, what a catchy title. I hope they lock you up!”

            Minute two: “Oh, no, go ahead, scratch that word out, yes, waste all the ink you want. You’ll just replace it with another stupid word anyway.

            Minute three: “That is not how you spell ‘incincerate’! How, could you possibly put two O’s in incinerate?”

            Minute four: “My goodness! What manner of beast raped you through your nostrils to batter your brain so badly you must write such? Release me at once!”

            Minute five: “Burnaded? That’s not even a word!”

            Minute six: “Think of Shakespeare, think of Shakespeare, think of Shakespeare, think of Shakespeare!”

            Minute seven: “Please turn me over, please! I promise I’ll never pretend to dry up again. I’ll do anything, please. Hey, wait a minute, what are you doing? No don’t chew on me. Nobody chews on pens, I …”

            Minute 8: “ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR…”

            Minute 9: “RRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!”

            Minute 10: “The horror. Oh god, the horror.”

            … to awaken to the nudge of an elbow. Before I knew it I was rolling forward to the edge of the desk, a prisoner still in jail stripes rolling down the hill away from his prison. I turned and I turned and I turned, all the while getting closer to the edge, and I told myself that I’d never get away, that caveman’s club hand would snatch me up before I got there. Then I was sailing away to freedom, as if I really did have a feather on my backside and I was using it to fly. I hit the ground noiselessly, and I kept rolling, almost all the way to the end of the room, to land at the feet of the teacher. She looked down at me, and then without a pause, kneeled down to pick me up, lifting me into the air with the hands that had years of experience with pens.

An English teacher, hallelujah! The very pinnacle of reason, grammatical perfection, and knowledge in spelling! The very best person to belong to as a writing utensil. I was made; I was going to live the good life. If I had hands and feet I would cart wheel and jig about making-merry like some common piece of chalk. But then I heard the voice. That horrible voice.

            “Cerena, could I borrow something to write with? I seem to have lost my pen.”

            “Okay, Jamie, I just found this one. Just keep doing your assignment.”

            “Assignment?”

            “Yes, you’re supposed to write for half an hour about… yuck, there’s bite marks on this.”

            “That’s okay, thanks.”

Life sucks, for I am a pen.

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Essay on “Autobiography of a Pen” for Students in English

January 4, 2021 by Sandeep

Essay on Autobiography of a Pen: The most classic birthday gift and the treasured armour of every writer is the pen. The most basic entity of stationery stores and the decorative asset of a pen stand is used by one and all. Poets and writers alike, the pen is truly regarded as being mightier than a sword. A pen gives life to expressions and thoughts.

Essay on Autobiography of a Pen

Below we have provided essay on autobiography of a Pen, suitable for class 3, 4, 5,6, 7, 8, 9 & 10.

“If you want to change the world, pick up your pen and write.” ~ Martin Luther

I am a pen. A fountain ink pen. Something so insignificant that you don’t waste even one minute of your life thinking about me. But here I am, telling you my story. The pen that has been used to write different tales of so many people has finally got a chance to inscribe his own. I remember the day I came into existence. It was quite a long time ago. I took birth in a place you humans call a factory. All of my parts were inserted one by one through the hands of factory workers.

I remember moving at a fast pace on a conveyor belt. The workmen were handling me with care, and I was growing in size as well as beauty with each additional touch. I have a matte black and steel grey body along with a golden nib. If there had been beauty pageants for pens, I think I would have been a strong contender for sure. After I and my fellow fountain ink pens were ready, we were put into a transparent case. We were then put into a cardboard box in a batch of 100 pens.

The travel was extremely long and tiring. We started out in the back of a truck and soon found ourselves flying in the mighty sky in an aeroplane. We were then unloaded into a truck again and finally reached our destination after around 10 hours. We were ordered by a shop owner in the city of Mumbai. His shop was in Bandra where I’m told that a lot of famous people live.

My friends and I were kept in a glass cupboard. The owner’s servant used to clean the cabinet and dust us daily. Customers were never allowed to touch us without the assistance of the shop owner. I often wondered why we fountain ink pens got so much attention and special treatment. Why weren’t we treated the same way as other ballpoint pens or gel pens? People would come to the shop and buy other pens.

Some would come and look at us but never take us home with them. I thought that maybe there was some major problem with me. Perhaps I wasn’t handy or convenient. Maybe I was not stylish looking after all. Feelings of self-pity and dejection started taking over my friends and me. But we soon learnt the truth. One fine morning, just like every other day, the owner’s servant was cleaning the cupboard and dusting one of my friends when suddenly the ink pen slipped from his hand and landed straight on the hard marble floor.

The nib of the pen was completely destroyed. I felt sad and unhappy, looking at the incident, but I knew that the servant did it by mistake. As soon as this happened, the shop owner rushed towards the servant and gave him a good scolding. He told him that the pen that he had broken was very costly and that he would not get his salary for three months. After hearing the shop owner’s words, I felt sad for the 14-year old, but my self-esteem had also risen back.

The reason why people were not purchasing me, and my friends was not because we had some or the other flaw, but because we were quite expensive. After that day, the servant was not allowed to come near us, and the shop owner himself did the dusting work. After a wait of more than a year, I was finally picked up by a well-known writer and was taken to his home. He put me with many other of his pens. It seemed like he had a collection.

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Autobiography of Pen in simple english

• May 1, 2023
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Autobiography of the pen in 100 words

I am a pen, born in a factory where I was crafted from plastic and metal. My purpose in life is to put ink onto paper, to tell stories, and to make connections between people. I have been used to writing letters, signing contracts, drawing pictures, and jotting down notes. I have been held by the hands of children learning to write and by the hands of world leaders signing historic documents. Over time, I have been lost and found, passed between friends and strangers, and travelled to different parts of the world. I am just a simple pen, but I am proud of the stories I have helped to create.

Autobiography of the pen in 200 words

I am a pen, a small but mighty tool that has played a significant role in the lives of people for centuries. I was born in a factory, where I was crafted from plastic, metal, and ink. From the moment I was created, I knew my purpose in life was to put ink onto paper, to tell stories, and to make connections between people.

Throughout my life, I have been used to writing letters to loved ones, signing contracts, drawing pictures, and jotting down notes. I have been held by the hands of children learning to write and by the hands of world leaders signing historic documents. I have been a witness to the world’s most important moments, and I have played a small part in making them happen.

I have also been a source of comfort and companionship to many people. I have been a constant companion to writers and artists, who have poured their hearts onto the pages I have filled. I have been a shoulder to cry on for those who have needed to express their emotions through writing.

Over time, I have been lost and found, passed between friends and strangers, and travelled to different parts of the world. But no matter where I go or who I belong to, I always remember my purpose – to help people express themselves and connect with others through the power of the written word.

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Autobiography of a Pen [PDF]

A pen is our daily mate, today we in this autobiography presentation, we are covering the topic an autobiography of a pen, I hope you like this presentation.

I am the quintessential birthday gift that one receives at least once in their life. I am a blue ink ballpoint Parker pen who has a dark green and gold cover from the outside.

I have an unlimited shelf life guarantee and whenever you write so much that my ink gets over, please do not think twice before buying a refill and using it again because I believe that some luxuries are meant to be had.

I start off every day in some new places. I believe life is a journey full of adventures and surprises about what is to come next. Some days, you will find me patiently standing on the pen stand by the study table.

Some days, you will find me lying on top of some paperwork kept on the coffee table. Some days I roll around on top of the fridge and some days I find a spot on the dining table.

On some occasions, I have also stayed rolling on the carpeted floor for a few days before I was discovered and then properly relocated again. I am usually used to write.

My ink has been often used to create wonder out of words. Some have written poems and redefined the beauty of poetry while some others have penned spell-binding screenplays and stories with my guidance, continuous support and aid. Due to my smooth grip feature and elegant tip finish, anyone who handles me becomes a fan of my guidance and starts to love their own typography.

My handler found me on their birthday, indeed it is a coincidence I would like to believe. She takes care of me throughout the day and even later in the night.

When I initially started as a pen, she used to clean me using a handkerchief every evening and she would place me back into the strong, weather protectant pen cover every single night without fail.

But as with other things, the formality slowly died down. After all, familiarity breeds comfort does it not. So then gradually, I started to be treated as an everyday object.

The importance and care that was given to me at an earlier time, now almost seemed like an act, full of falsehoods and betrayals.

But I did not think much about it. I was to be used as a tool for writing and for that, I was at her disposal. Every morning I was packed into her pencil box and I would travel into her school for months.

She would take me out of the box at the start of every class to take down notes with the help of my smooth nib and put me back inside after she was done with plastering her notes every session.

Then again I would stay inside the dark box for the lunch hour and I would only get to view the outside world when the next lecture class came by.

Then something monumental happened one particular day. As usual, I was lying around the house. So she came searching for me and picked me up from the coffee table where she had found me.

I was carried to her room and placed inside her dark pencil box which was again placed into her school bag. Then after what seemed like ages, I felt the pencil box being carried out and then the box was opened.

A bright light came flooding in and I was taken out and placed onto a wooden school desk.  The room was filled with clamor and loud noises until the teacher walked in.

Suddenly, the air became so silent you could hear a pin drop. Then the class started. As the lecture proceeded, the number of notes written with my smooth flowing ink increased.

I glided on and on ahead along with gritty white-ruled notebooks and printed textbooks, highlighting points and underlining important statements and scribbling important definitions along the borders of the text and corners of the book.

This went on till the bell rang for our lunch break. I was once again placed inside the pencil box and shoved into the bag before she hurried out with her lunch box to a world of freedom and bliss I suppose. While I stayed quietly minding my own business inside the bag, I suddenly felt something happening out of routine.

The bag seemed to be picked off the floor and placed on a table while the zip was opened. Then a hand swam in searching for the pencil box. After evading a mix of old assignments, empty chocolate wrappers, and files, it finally caught a hold of the pencil box. And then, the box was open.

Imagine my confusion and surprise as I looked at an unknown girl, a complete stranger, smile gleefully at me and pick me up. She quickly shoved me into her skirt pocket while I swished around in the darkness of the material wondering what in the world was happening. Afterward, forgoing a long time of being swished around, the girl finally came to a stop as the bell rang and she came and sat on the school bench.

As the lectures went on, she never took me out of her pocket and that left me wondering what I was doing in this entire situation. Then towards the end of class, she deftly slipped me into her pencil box and went off to her home. I never for once was taken out of her pencil box.

After what felt like ages, the box was opened and then again, the similar feel of white light and loud voices and noises came crashing in. But this time, I was grabbed by another pair of hands. As I looked up I realized I was back to my owner! At last, I had been rescued from this lack of luster voyage to nowhere.

Then after a few days, I got to know what the entire situation was as the girl narrated the story to her elders. That one fateful day, after she had gone to play outside with her friends, one mean girl who was jealous of her Parker pen, which is me, went berserk and stole me out of her bag.

She then proceeded to keep me with her while my owner cried and begged everyone to search high and low for me as I was apparently a very special pen for her. That warmed my heart.

Upon talking to different people in the class, finally, one student spoke up and told that when they were entering the class, they had seen the jealous girl near her bag. Immediately, my owner had approached and confronted her about the situation.

Even then, the jealous girl denied and shamed my owner for falsely accusing her. When asked if her pencil box could be checked just to be sure, she denied. But after speaking to her class teacher, she got the girl to open her pencil box and finally found me. We were reunited after a long time and the girl who kidnapped me was told off and punished for being dishonest and behaving like a thief.

After a few days, once again I and my owner fell into our daily routine. The only difference being this time around, both of us were grateful for each other.

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