Flash: Pen Friend

Until recently, there was an angry little man that lived in my pen. He made me write things. I couldn’t take any credit for my creative writing but neither did I take responsibility for my acerbic critiques. 
   Last Tuesday, when I was replacing the refill in my pen, he leapt out of his home and onto my page.

   ‘I am not happy,’ he said. ‘Even for someone of my stature it is not comfortable living in a pen.’

   ‘If it helps, I’m not happy either.’

   ‘Why?’ he asked, scowling up at me.

   ‘I wish you were a woman,’ I told him, ‘I dislike being dictated to by a man.’

   ‘That’s it,’ he said, ‘I’m moving out.’

   ‘No notice?’ I asked, panicking slightly.

   ‘No.’ He dived into my pen and I resisted trapping him back in there. When he reappeared, he was holding a tiny suitcase.

   ‘So long,’ he said, and smiled for the first time ever.

   I watched him walk away, heaving his suitcase behind him. He walked as far as my laptop. There, he surveyed the keyboard and glowing screen and gave a sigh of contentment. He strode to the home key, pulled it up and jumped inside.

   ‘Here, you can escape whenever you want to,’ I told him.

   ‘And I’ll try and get in touch with my feminine side,’ he replied from his new abode.