Dreams of the Quill

by Flak

“For the Pen…

“It’s a bold idea, kid. But some day, you’ll bring it to new heights, I’m sure. There’s no such thing as overambition. You’ll do good, kid. You’ll do good.”

“Thanks mister,” I’d replied, meekly, as humbly as I could manage. It didn’t matter what anyone said, even someone I admired as much as that old man. My idea was doomed to be disregarded. I was just… some brat at the time, some kid who had an overactive imagination.

“Dear, it’s time for your afternoon nap.” She came up behind him and placed her hand on his shoulder, curled her fingers around it. I remember that hand motion so well, even now. The way they gradually came down, and then each joint bent, one by one, until her hand fit his shoulder. In my heart of hearts, already at that young age, such a symbol of affection… it had an effect on me. I was eager, eager to feel that kind of touch.

And he smiled at me as he turned. The last true smile I remember anyone sharing with me. I smiled back, unaware, at the time, of course, that he was lying to me as men do to encourage children. The old lady smiled at me, waved with her free hand, and then led the man to the back room. I gathered my papers up, repositioned the bull clip, and then was out the screen door, onto the porch, and into the world.

A week later, my parents told me they’d received a call from the old lady. Apparently, the geezer had died from a heart attack. I remember that instant when they told me, in just about as vivid a manner as I remember how the old lady touched his shoulder- I remember, clearly the first time I ever felt betrayed.

I didn’t cry when I heard that he’d died, no, I just sulked.

Of course, this seemed odd to everyone who knew me- my parents, the old woman, the teachers at that hell hole I used to think of as a school. They expected me to be sad, because he’d been the one figure I’d ever looked up to, the one man I’d ever confided in. I used to go to his house on the weekends in the summer, and sit on the porch with him while he smoked his pipe or fiddled with odd wooden toys. I would dangle my legs over the edge, just so, and kick them until he became upset. But as soon as I would apologize, he would ruffle my hair and smile around his pipe.

There was warmth in his house, always. When I brought my scraps with me that day, the week before he died, he acted authentically impressed, and gave me that smile that, though he was lying, was honest and forthright, and was telling me to do my best. He’d only skimmed my work; we spent most of that afternoon talking about the ideas. He was not the kind of man to mess around with unfinished product, he was the kind of man who would sit down and put business on the table, he would make the product come together. I can’t help but feel that maybe if he hadn’t died, my idea would have gotten somewhere. My words might have left the page. I might have become more than I am.

What am I?

A sad person. I’ve abandoned everything I once dreamed of having, to be able to enjoy what is in my grasp. As soon as I graduated high school, I was out the door, with the blessings of my parents- for all the wrong reasons. I ended up going through grade school, middle school, and high school with no real idea where I was going. No friends, no real direction in life, no special talents, and no recognized feats. I became obsessed with what even someone like me could reach- anime. And so, when the issue of college came up, I decided I’d use my Japanese classes and high-ranking scholarship for something I believed in, and my parents were all for it.

I’m a first year college student in Osaka’s not-so-prestigious Kurosakura University.

I’ve only been here a short while, but I feel like I’ve already adjusted a lot. I’d heard that school life in Japan was tough and rigorous, but so far the only troubles I’ve had have been with the language. I’ve only been here a short while, but I’ve grown accustomed to a lot of things this place has to throw at you.

However, there’s one thing that makes me feel uncomfortable. I’m not sure if it even has to do with Japan, but I have this feeling that’s been pestering me since I got here. I’ve been feeling nostalgic. The other day, when writing an paper, I realized I was really getting into it. I never really adjusted to these Japanese keyboards, so I always handwrite things here. In pen, of course. I was just running through some kanji, writing out a place name, when I noticed how intensely I was concentrating on the work.

The pen… it felt odd in my hand, yet good, after all this time. Ever since I��?ve been trusted to use computers, I’ve always typed. Now, in Osaka, I’m reminded of that time when I was much younger, when I was happy and foolish. For days now, I haven’t been able to get it out of my head- those memories of the old man, and of the summer afternoons I spent with him. And of the ideas that were running through my head at the time.

Even now, as I’m thinking these thoughts, I’m lying on my mattress, staring up at the ceiling of my dorm room, and wondering to myself,

“What did that old man really think of my aspirations?”

“What was that, Kaze-kun?” my roommate calls up from the bottom bunk, and I realize I’d spoken out loud, and in English, too.

“Nothing,” I reply, quickly, perhaps too quickly, switching as best as I could from English to Japanese. My thoughts went into disarray as I began to focus back on where I was, what I was, and who I was. None of those past events mattered. My old ideas could not so easily spring to life. The old man would not be resurrected. Yet… my passionate hatred for him, kindled by his betrayal, by his death… this flame had been re-lit. And it was all because of the pen.