Autobiography of pen within 3000 words
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am a Fountain Pen and today I am writing my Autobiography.
I was born at a pen factory a few years ago. My outer body is golden in colour . I was displayed at a pen shop; so I could watch all the people passing by. Several people also had a glance to have a look at me.
In the meantime, I was purchased by a famous writer from the market and I am still staying with him. I am the favorite pen of the writer.
The writer finds pleasure in writing with me. I am also very glad and proud of it. I do my best to help him finish his task on time. He uses me to write many poems, stories and essays. There are then taken to the press for printing and they are published in the form of a book. The writer gets so much money and fame as I help him to write with. His thoughts and ideas are expressed in words and then recorded through me. This is how I try to spread human knowledge from one generation to another.
I am very fond of my master. He always take care that my beautiful body do not get scratched.
Thus, Culture and literature of human civilization are so much dependent on us. We have great power to changer the human mind and heart. It, therefore, very rightly said, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”
Hope this helps u.......
I was born at a pen factory a few years ago. My outer body is golden in colour . I was displayed at a pen shop; so I could watch all the people passing by. Several people also had a glance to have a look at me.
In the meantime, I was purchased by a famous writer from the market and I am still staying with him. I am the favorite pen of the writer.
The writer finds pleasure in writing with me. I am also very glad and proud of it. I do my best to help him finish his task on time. He uses me to write many poems, stories and essays. There are then taken to the press for printing and they are published in the form of a book. The writer gets so much money and fame as I help him to write with. His thoughts and ideas are expressed in words and then recorded through me. This is how I try to spread human knowledge from one generation to another.
I am very fond of my master. He always take care that my beautiful body do not get scratched.
Thus, Culture and literature of human civilization are so much dependent on us. We have great power to changer the human mind and heart. It, therefore, very rightly said, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”
Hope this helps u.......
Answered by
52
An autobiography of a pen
Myself a pen. My name is Parker. I was born in a factory. When I was in shop named Stencils, a boy came and bought me at Rs 175. His name was Herbert .He always cared me a lot. He used me and refilled me every month. I was happy that I got such a good owner. He was not allowing any one to touch me .He always kept me with him , never left me alone.He used to introduce me to others as his Luckiest pen . I was proud of my master.
His tiny age was very innocent . I used to like his sweet and mild touch . Once there was a handwriting competition . Herbert and both were very curious to know the results .After one week of the competition , result of handwriting competition was declared . Herbert got first prize. Our joys had no bound ! Even today also , when I remember that day , it give me a great delight .
I remember how he was giving credit of his win to me. It was his last paper , he wrote his paper very nicely . Suddenly , I experienced myself on the ground .Once a boy in his school had stolen me, and while playing he lost me on the ground. A farmer saw me and picked me. One man from city saw me and told the farmer that he would give him Rs. 20, and he took me away to a shop and sold me at 160 Rs and he made a profit of 140 Rs. I felt very bad for myself. Then I was again to a shop. And waiting for a good owner. After a long wait of 7 hours , a boy came and purchased me.
This new owner was no one but Herbert , my old owner .After seeing me his eyes flooded with tears , he kissed me many times . I thanked to God . Our happy life started once again .
OR
I stood in the darkest corner of her enormous room, alone, with no one to talk to or even write to. And there she was with her new friend, unaware of my dejected feelings and hopeless state. But this is not me...This was never me! Nor was this the life I had imagined! Let me take you a few months back…
I was a pen, red and shiny but had always written in royal blue. I was the gift from her dad on her fifteenth birthday. She used to be fond of me and used to take me everywhere, through people, places and events … I had travelled so much, through pages and pages of the feelings that lay inside her, through her writing. She used to call me her “Lucky Pen”.
But one day, I remember her writing … writing harsh on the roughest paper I had experienced. She was crying and I could feel her tears on me. It was sad to know that she had lost her dad because I knew she loved him the most. But then, the most horrible thing happened when she accidentally put me down and dented my nib. That hurt! “Oh No!” she wept and cried even more. I wanted to console her, write “I’m OK! Really!” on the sheet of paper she had in front of her. But Alas I couldn’t because even though they call us mightier than the sword, neither can we stand on our own nor can we express what we feel. We can articulate what our owners feel or what they want but not about our own selves. So that was the last of her I had known! That was the last of Us!
I enjoyed running over the soft and smooth pages of her diary, telling about all what she felt … made me cry sometimes, reading what she wrote. And that’s why I bled, and she went berserk at that because bleed is what good pens aren’t supposed to do, only if she understood why I bled!
I loved being with her. “Lucky Pen” she used to call me and I was proud of that status.
I am on the wait now for her to pick me up and give me some exercise. I miss reading into her mind. I miss being the first person to know what she felt. I miss her. She never even comes to me these days. I see her fingers flying over the black and white keys with her eyes fixed on the white flickering screen. I see they are her friends now and I am neglected. Although they print well what she says and thinks but they will never smell her hand nor will ever see her beautiful handwriting. They will never bleed for her nor will they think or cry for her …
I stay in her pen stand, waiting to be taken in her fingers again, drink in ink once more and spill it all out for her … but I guess I will have to stay like this and wait in vain for the rest of my life!
Pen!
OR
Myself a pen. My name is Parker. I was born in a factory. When I was in shop named Stencils, a boy came and bought me at Rs 175. His name was Herbert .He always cared me a lot. He used me and refilled me every month. I was happy that I got such a good owner. He was not allowing any one to touch me .He always kept me with him , never left me alone.He used to introduce me to others as his Luckiest pen . I was proud of my master.
His tiny age was very innocent . I used to like his sweet and mild touch . Once there was a handwriting competition . Herbert and both were very curious to know the results .After one week of the competition , result of handwriting competition was declared . Herbert got first prize. Our joys had no bound ! Even today also , when I remember that day , it give me a great delight .
I remember how he was giving credit of his win to me. It was his last paper , he wrote his paper very nicely . Suddenly , I experienced myself on the ground .Once a boy in his school had stolen me, and while playing he lost me on the ground. A farmer saw me and picked me. One man from city saw me and told the farmer that he would give him Rs. 20, and he took me away to a shop and sold me at 160 Rs and he made a profit of 140 Rs. I felt very bad for myself. Then I was again to a shop. And waiting for a good owner. After a long wait of 7 hours , a boy came and purchased me.
This new owner was no one but Herbert , my old owner .After seeing me his eyes flooded with tears , he kissed me many times . I thanked to God . Our happy life started once again .
OR
I stood in the darkest corner of her enormous room, alone, with no one to talk to or even write to. And there she was with her new friend, unaware of my dejected feelings and hopeless state. But this is not me...This was never me! Nor was this the life I had imagined! Let me take you a few months back…
I was a pen, red and shiny but had always written in royal blue. I was the gift from her dad on her fifteenth birthday. She used to be fond of me and used to take me everywhere, through people, places and events … I had travelled so much, through pages and pages of the feelings that lay inside her, through her writing. She used to call me her “Lucky Pen”.
But one day, I remember her writing … writing harsh on the roughest paper I had experienced. She was crying and I could feel her tears on me. It was sad to know that she had lost her dad because I knew she loved him the most. But then, the most horrible thing happened when she accidentally put me down and dented my nib. That hurt! “Oh No!” she wept and cried even more. I wanted to console her, write “I’m OK! Really!” on the sheet of paper she had in front of her. But Alas I couldn’t because even though they call us mightier than the sword, neither can we stand on our own nor can we express what we feel. We can articulate what our owners feel or what they want but not about our own selves. So that was the last of her I had known! That was the last of Us!
I enjoyed running over the soft and smooth pages of her diary, telling about all what she felt … made me cry sometimes, reading what she wrote. And that’s why I bled, and she went berserk at that because bleed is what good pens aren’t supposed to do, only if she understood why I bled!
I loved being with her. “Lucky Pen” she used to call me and I was proud of that status.
I am on the wait now for her to pick me up and give me some exercise. I miss reading into her mind. I miss being the first person to know what she felt. I miss her. She never even comes to me these days. I see her fingers flying over the black and white keys with her eyes fixed on the white flickering screen. I see they are her friends now and I am neglected. Although they print well what she says and thinks but they will never smell her hand nor will ever see her beautiful handwriting. They will never bleed for her nor will they think or cry for her …
I stay in her pen stand, waiting to be taken in her fingers again, drink in ink once more and spill it all out for her … but I guess I will have to stay like this and wait in vain for the rest of my life!
Pen!
OR
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