The pen ( short story)

It was firmly stuck to his fingers. He opened his hand and spread his fingers to the point when just it reached a solitary finger. Be that as it may, it was all the while holding quick. He had a go at shaking, knocking, lastly nosy, however, it wouldn't let free.

He pushed on it with a finger of the other hand, the skin moved with it to the point that it was getting to be noticeably excruciating. The idea jumped out at him that he could cut a single layer of skin, and it would need to discharge with his bit of skin, yet the torment was something he couldn't take, at any rate, he didn't figure he could.

His hand moved to the head of the paper as made a few imprints. However, it wasn't irregular writing. It had made a tall circle, at that point a line beside it. He saw the vertical line it had made was straight. At that point it took after with two small dots, one over the other, framing a colon. Moving his fingers around, a tall oval showed up, at that point another. It was done by a short arrangement of dots, similar to it was waiting.

Moving underneath the reference to time, a moment to be correct. He started composing the first thing he thought of, his name. It moved effortlessly, just as the pencil was greased up somehow that it didn't have any rubbing with the paper. The four letters turned out extremely exact and flawless, much superior to his own handwriting.

After the four letters, he composed the letters "jr" and completed it with a period. The numbers at the head of the page blurred rapidly and the pencil dropped from his hand. He was left pondering what might have happened had he not beaten the clock at the head of the page? It had been a one second.