I stepped on my favorite pen. I was writing outside and stopped for a spray of bug repellent. I guess I dropped my pen when I was soaking the 1st Mate. I didn't realize it until after he had doused me with the spray (which did absolutely nothing to repel the hundreds of more than usually bloodthirsty mosquitoes) that I didn't have my pen. It was lying on the ground where my foot had landed when I tripped as I stood up to be sprayed.
It's a beautiful pen. It was hand decorated with a coat of clay and a pretty sunflower. The artist's fingerprints in the clay around the tip fit my fingers exactly right. It beats those squishy rubber grippy-things to pieces. It didn't even need a name, since there's one right on the side of it, a little wooden strip that says "Costa Rica." The ink always comes out in a beautiful, steady, dark blue almost black line, but it doesn't get all clumpy and nasty on the tip. It doesn't scratch or stick. It was a present from my uncle.
Now there is a crack around the top of it, through the clay and the plastic. The ink flow has slowed to a faint blue line. My Costa Rica Pen has written its last letter. RIP.
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