{"id":1765,"date":"2022-02-22T23:43:50","date_gmt":"2022-02-22T23:43:50","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/jdlitmag.org\/?p=1765"},"modified":"2023-06-24T01:10:02","modified_gmt":"2023-06-24T01:10:02","slug":"the-silver-pen","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/jdlitmag.org\/index.php\/2022\/02\/22\/the-silver-pen\/","title":{"rendered":"The Silver Pen"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Featured in the 2021 Winter Issue of Rambunctious<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

By Vaishnavi Gornale, ’24<\/h4>\n\n\n\n

Near the very end of the unsettled but quiet United Kingdom, there was a small town \u2014 small even for a small town, for it was only made up of 15 houses, and in each house lived precisely five people. Of course, that was true in all but one house. It had walls the lightest shade of pink, curtains with the lightest shade of blue and a stone door that was dark and burgundy. And the villagers could have sworn it creaked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This was a small town and as any self-respecting small town, it had discipline, it had order and if you were to live in such a town, there were certainly things you simply had to know. For example, you had to know Mr. Seltsam, a man with a shabby white bush on his chin that somehow stretched to the other end of his cheeks and curled at the very tip, was the oldest and, therefore, the wisest man in all of Klein Town. You had to know his favorite saying was, \u201cPerception changes things, my children,\u201d and his favorite thing was his silver pen, which he patted his pockets for every 52 seconds. And of course, you had to know that one could not tell if Mr. Seltsam was blessed or cursed, for the old man had never been seen outside his home in 50 years. This was common knowledge, even for Cory Gliech, who never cared for such details. Especially Emma Elizabeth Anders, who only cared for such details.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Emma Elizabeth Anders carried a book in her back pocket and a pencil in her hair, who \u2014 as the bane of her existence claimed \u2014 had a nail for a nose and eyes that looked like her lips, a narrow straight line that never quite changed. Who was a self-proclaimed detective who kept tabs on everybody. Especially Mr. Seltsam \u2014 because, well, she was certain he was blessed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMr. Seltsam,\u201d she asked, the night of winter solstice when the townspeople were hidden behind their blankets and when no sane man would open his door to this frightful little girl. But with cold insistence and a thousand knocks, the girl finally got one old man to open. \u201cWhat is your age, Mr. Seltsam?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs that not a bit strange to ask, Miss Anders?\u201d The man frowned at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot at all.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh! Well, in that case Miss Anders, I\u2019m 503.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd why exactly\u201d \u2014 she went on, unperturbed, rapidly scribbling away in her notebook \u2014 \u201cAre you alive?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGod\u2019s will, I suppose,\u201d he said simply. Perhaps too simply.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHm,\u201d she murmured. \u201cAnd what do you do, Mr. Seltsam?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am an old man, Miss Anders, who enjoys solitude.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd what, Mr. Seltsam,\u201d Emma asked, \u201cdo you do while you follow the life of a hermit?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWrite,\u201d he said. \u201cI’m a writer \u2014 Miss Anders, do you not have parents?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Emma grinned at him. \u201cI do, in fact.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI see.\u201d Mr. Seltsam pursed his lips.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHmm,\u201d she continued, nodding her head. His answers matched up with her own observations. He was not lying. Yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He could not escape her. Surely, he knew that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She opened her mouth to question him on his beard when she caught the twinkle in his eye. Odd, she thought. Mr. Seltsam was the kind of man who frowned far more than he smiled. His eyes shouldn\u2019t be laughing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat else do you do, Mr. Seltsam?\u201d she asked slowly. His frown deepened and blinked at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNothing else, Miss Anders.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTruly?\u201d she asked nonchalantly. \u201cNothing else?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, girl,\u201d the old man said, his face contorting into a nasty scowl. He tapped at the window through which he was looking. \u201cNow if you\u2019ll get off my porch, I need \u2014 need to \u2014 sleep. I must sleep.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He turned around, his shoulder hunched. But then she said, \u201cWhat does that pen do, Mr. Seltsam?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d he asked, twisting around far too fast for the age he claimed. There was another twinkle in his eye. Though this time, Emma didn\u2019t notice it. Nor did she realize that it was not the same as before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou hoard it like a jewel,\u201d she said. \u201cSurely, it\u2019s special.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is just a pen,\u201d he said through his teeth. \u201cIt will do you good to leave me alone, little girl.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHmm,\u201d she murmured \u2014 if only to add to Mr. Seltsam\u2019s irritation. \u201cWe will find out soon enough, we suppose. Good day, Mr. Seltsam.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood riddance,\u201d he muttered as she sauntered off onto the street. He paused, his hand on the window, staring off until the girl disappeared from his sight. \u201cGood riddance,\u201d he murmured, a thought circling his mind. He remained silent for a moment, tossing the thought around. It was an unfortunate thought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the right one. For she was on a dangerous path. He knew it. Perhaps the girl knew it too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So when night fell, never had the town of Klein felt colder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next morning, the whole town erupted in whispers. Something extraordinary had happened. Mr. Seltsam, who did nothing but scowl out his window as anyone who dared look his way, had carefully walked down the sidewalk with his mud-colored overcoat, stretching to his ankles. He stopped in front of a light blue door and knocked once. The lady who opened the door was frail, the outline of her bones visible on every inch of her skin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is it you want?\u201d she rasped, rubbing her eyes. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is the Anders’ house,\u201d Mr. Seltsam stated. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman glared and repeated, \u201cWhat do you want, old man?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m looking for Emma Elizabeth Anders,\u201d he said. The woman blinked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Seltsam leaned forward. \u201cA little girl who walks around with a pencil and book?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman squinted. \u201cWho in God\u2019s name is she?\u201d she asked, her lips stretched over her crooked teeth. \u201cDon\u2019t go around making up names as you please, old man. And for everyone\u2019s sake, stop wasting our time with your wild imaginations.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She slammed the door and the bystanders jolted once. Then, again, when they noticed a smile creep onto the old man\u2019s face. Parents ushered their children down the street and others hid them behind their backs as they scurried past. Smiling. The old man was smiling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And only he knew why. For the previous night, Mr. Seltsam, with his strange eyes and hidden face, who was most certainly cursed, whose life only one girl had bothered ever dared to venture into, had lifted his silver pen with his unstill hands and began to rewrite. Writer. Rewriter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For that day, history had changed: Klein Town had two strange houses. Both houses had the wrong number of people. And, of course, Emma Elizabeth Anders had never been born.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Vaishnavi Gornale, ’24<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"full-width-single-post.php","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[51,10],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/jdlitmag.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1765"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/jdlitmag.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/jdlitmag.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jdlitmag.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jdlitmag.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1765"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/jdlitmag.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1765\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2291,"href":"https:\/\/jdlitmag.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1765\/revisions\/2291"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/jdlitmag.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1765"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jdlitmag.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1765"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jdlitmag.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1765"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}