My Writing Friend

CLICK! Skrrrritch! Scrrrrrratch! Squeek! “OUCH! Will you stop that? It hurts.” “Hurts? But I barely wrote one sentence.” “Can you write in bullet points instead?” “Nope. That's not how a novelist writes.” “Novelist-schmovelist. All my friends are dying because of you.” “Well, ain't that your job? To die for me?” “I wish I was born something else instead.” “Then go back to the factory and ask them to make you into something else.” “Will you take me there?” “Sorry! I don't know where you were made.” “Damn.” “Now be quiet and let me write.” Scrrrrrritch! Scrrrrratch! Sczzzzzz! CLICK! “I honestly don't understand how my friends can be so self-sacrificing to people who take them for granted.” I sighed. "Your friends help people to finish their work, mate, whether they take them for granted or not." “Yeah, but it pains me to see my friends just chucked away, lost or forgotten, half-dead, half-drained, and not used to their fullest potential and capacity!” “Don't worry, my friend. I"m not going to treat you like that,” I said, for I know how much this friend (and all his other friends) mean to me. “Good to know.” I kept on writing. My friend remained silent as I worked. “Hey,” he suddenly spoke up again, “do you really do this for a living? I mean, are you gonna sell your stories to other people and make money out of it? I don't want every drop of my precious blood wasted on nothing, man!” I smiled at him. “Darling, no matter what I use you for, not a single drop of your life line will be wasted. It's not just what I write and whether I make money out of it or not, but how much the writing means to me; about how your blood gives life to what I can't contain inside of me.” He looked at me with the most bewildered of eyes. “And yes, ideally, I would LOVE to make a living out of something I enjoy doing. But even if that doesn't happen, that's okay. I still have many other options and opportunities in life. As a writer, I write for the fun of it, not just for work. You will NEVER be taken for granted by a writer, my friend.” He blinked. Slowly. Then he gasped. “D-did you just said I can give LIFE to the things you cannot keep inside of you? Th-that sounds GRAND.” “Maybe 'cause it IS grand. And, yep, that's your job. That's what you, and your friends, do.” “R-really? I thought I was only a simple tool, a dime-a-dozen kind of thing. Something so common and everyday that people wouldn't stop to think twice about.” “Well,” I figured, “true, you ARE a simple everyday object. But you're one of the most important simple everyday objects to me. Together we can work magic.” Tears started rolling down my friend's eyes, wetting my paper. “Hey, cut that out! You're ruining my work.” “S-sorry. YOU started this,” he sniffed. “You're welcome,” I said sarcastically, and dabbed the wet spots on my sheet with tissue paper. “I just feel so underappreciated these days.” “Well, when you get back into pencil case, be sure to tell your friends how much they mean to me, yeah?” “Okay.” I finished my work and CLICK! I let my friend rest. I looked at all his other friends of the brightest technicolour that gave life and personality to all my writings. I smiled, all of these thin, colourful little things have served me well for all this time. I really shouldn't take a single one of them for granted anymore, especially when I forget to bring stationery to class (oops!). I tucked my friend into my pencil case, zipped it up, closed my notebook, and put my work away for the day.