My pens have declared their independence and left me.
I am sure that I heard them hosting a freedom rally complete with chants and protests. They must have held a meeting, decided that my that my desk represented too much oppression in their inky little lives, voted a rebellion into place, and off they went.
They fled my room, and moved past colored walls and hard wood floors, over the scattered hallway toys and way ward sneakers. They must be camping out in various secret areas; the darkened hiding places of my grandson’s backpack, my granddaughter’s little purses, or in between the seats of my daughter’s car.
I could declare a literary war on them, gather myself and my trusty coon hound, and hunt them down viciously. I could seize upon them, kidnap them all, and lock them back into the isolation of my writing desk, where I would daily force them into the hard manual labor, that in my mind, I feel they were made for.
As it is I will probably just resign myself to the loss, declare a truce, and relinquish my mastery rights. After all, Walmart is open twenty four hours a day, and in that store I can always find a myriad of other pack of pens just waiting to be enslaved.