The Indigo Pen
The Indigo Pen stories
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When I graduated from college, Grandpa gave me a gift. He said the present led him to everything he loved: his job, his friends, and his family. It was an ornate pen, deep blue with a silver cap. The point was sharp and the ink flowed like an indigo stream.
By ShadowScribe https://www.reddit.com/r/...

The Indigo Pen

by ShadowScribe

When I graduated from college, Grandpa gave me a gift. He said the present led him to everything he loved: his job, his friends, and his family.

It was an ornate pen, deep blue with a silver cap. The point was sharp and the ink flowed like an indigo stream.

Sensing my nervousness at using his most prized possession, he took my hand in his and together we wrote my first sentence.

*With this pen, you can change the world.*

The next day, Grandpa passed away. Everyone was overwhelmed with grief. Grandpa had been my best friend, my closest confidant.

With tears streaming down my face, I grabbed his pen and sketched a picture of him, making sure every last detail was perfect.

That’s when we got the phone call.

Grandpa was alive. By some miracle his heart was beating stronger than ever. We raced to the hospital and found him standing out of bed, staring at the sunset. We hugged him and cried for hours.

We brought him home and watched over him every day. But something was wrong.

Grandpa didn’t smile anymore.

Curiosity led me back to the indigo pen, to test if I had cheated death. One by one, my sketches breathed life into souls long departed.

The media went into a frenzy, baffled at the resurrection of my dead relatives. The house grew crowded. My parents grew anxious.

My family didn’t smile anymore.

Soon, the reporters got aggressive. They refused to leave without answers. After a week indoors, I used the pen to draw a tidal wave.

A few hours later, I heard screams against the crashing waves. Thirty journalists were killed almost instantly.

Frightened, I tried to bring them back to life. They returned with dead eyes and empty stares. Soon, the government got involved.

The FBI broke down our door one morning and threatened my mother, demanding answers. I had no choice. I drew them all turning their guns on each other. In seconds, shots rang out from downstairs.

The cycle repeated itself. People grew curious, got too close, endangered my family, and paid the price. It became a routine. Habitual. I became numb to death.

Over the course of a month, I killed and resurrected four thousand people. Corpses roamed the lifeless streets.

No one smiled anymore.

Today, Grandpa sat me down in the kitchen. I stared into his pale eyes as he begged me to do the right thing, to put the world out of its misery.

All I needed to do was draw a picture of the undead ascending to heaven. I needed to set them free.

I ran upstairs, grabbed my journal, and flipped to the first page. I read what Grandpa had written so long ago.

*With this pen, you can change the world.*

I started to draw.

I started to set things right.

But just as I started to draw the gates of heaven, my heart froze.

I started to cry.

The pen ran out of ink.

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