I’m very fond of things that are free, like flowers picked fresh from a field, or handshakes, or certain kinds of love.

Maybe it was my love of free things that made me stop for the pen. I was the last person to dart across the road just as the lights were about to change. Then I noticed it. I stopped just as the cars were beginning to move and lent down to pick up the pen, which was seconds away from being run over. Suddenly I had to dart out of the way of the oncoming cars myself, clutching the pen.

There was nothing special about the pen, it was a plain black biro with silver details. It looked old and plain. But sometimes it’s the most inconspicuous things that turn out to be the most enchanting of all.

Throughout the day I felt the need to open my bag and look at my new pen. Eventually I grew tired of stopping to check on the pen so I just held it in my hand as I walked along. I held the pen tight all day.

When I got home I had a vey long and silly though: What if the pen is magic, and wants to repay me for saving it from being run over by giving me the powers to become a prolific writer.

What a silly thought I told myself, but I still felt excited as I touched its cheap and ordinary seeming pen tip to a fresh sheet of paper. Instantly the pen began running across the paper, still attached to my dumb feeling hand. The handwriting was my own but neater, more legible, and the words were forming sentences more perfect than a fresh daisy chain.

I sat for hours as the pen worked away. I watched with a flabbergasted expression as a perfect fairy tale was formed. Towards the end the pen stopped. I tried to think of the words to continue the last sentence, but I couldn’t.

Next my hand began to vibrate, lightly at first then violently. My whole hand moved to a near by post-it note and my hand wrote the words. “NEED COFFEE.”

“Oh” I said. I let go of the pen and walked to the kitchen to make some coffee. I added cream and maple syrup and drank the whole cup down in large glugs. I poured another and drank it down just as quickly. I felt better. I felt great.

I returned to my desk and picked up the pen. Once again it was scrambling across the page spouting beautiful lines, prettier than the sweetest bird song. I read as the pen wrote and was enthralled by the story. The fairy tale ending was at once both epic and quiet, breath taking and lovely.

I had been at my desk for 52 hours straight, without even realizing it. I leafed though the written pages, amazed. Then fell asleep.