text: &#x200B; With a placid look in his eyes he began to write as he did every day the story of a young man’s life. Sitting in an overwhelmingly grey room with just a desk and a pipe above his head that dispensed new pens anytime the ink would run out, he scribbled across the coarse white pages with his black pen documenting every mundane action of the day. Of the countless books he had written this was as unremarkable as the next. The only thing that would break up his day would be the sound of a pen coming down the shoot as the ink ran dry on the one currently occupying his hand. It got to the point where he could sense it was about to happen. He would toss the old pen in the box next to his desk, reach his bony fingers out, catch the new one mid-air and continue to write without missing a step. Just then a sound from the pipe above. *It’s not time for a new pen* he thought. He emptied his hands and looked up curiously as he caught and grasped a new pen. *Purple?* he said to himself. Turning the pen over in his hand he stared in wonder. Smiling, he placed the pen to the paper. Never has he been so excited to write for a story before in his life. Page after page filled with the most vibrant purple ink, story upon story. At times he would stop writing because he couldn’t stop laughing at the story that was unfolding before him. Cackling, leaning back in his chair and wiping tears from his eyes he would weave the most incredible tale that he has ever had the joy of writing. At the end of the day he flipped through the pages he had filled out. With a nod of his head he twisted the pen in his finger tips one last time, closed the book and set the pen down lovingly across the cover as he left to get some rest. The following morning he returned, eager to see what else this purple pen could do. He sat down and went to reach for the pen, but it was gone. In it’s place a black pen. Terrified he lifted up the book, flipped through the pages frantically searching for the purple pen. He looked under his desk, all around his work station, everywhere in the little grey room and found nothing. Looking up he saw the metal pipe the pen came from and began to get angry. In a fit of rage he stood on his chair and shook the pipe, beating on it and pulling it, cursing at it wanting to know why the pen was gone. After awhile he resigned himself to defeat and sat down and grabbed the black pen. Opening the book to the fresh new page he noticed something different. The ink from the purple pen had bled through. Slamming the pen down he picked up the book and flipped through the remainder of the pages. Each and every one had purple markings. Some with just a bit of a line, some small blotches, while others the entire page was tinted purple. Laughing a deep belly laugh he smiled at the book flipping the pages back and forth. He stood up and danced, spinning around holding the book outstretched. When he finally stopped moving he saw something out of the corner of his eye. The purple was laying on the top of the box of old pens. Slowly he reached down and picked it up, smiling and cuddling it against his face, he sat it down at the top of his desk and began to write. No longer did he have a dull empty expression, but a tiny smirk. He would laugh at the purple stained pages, hoping that some day in the future he would get another purple pen and be able to write those wonderful stories from before.