Late Wednesday Evening

 

It was strange.  His fountain pen began to vibrate and sparkle, like it was sending off pixie dust or something.  The next thing he knew was his hand was writing words he was unfamiliar with.  It was some foreign language, and somehow, he was no longer in control of his own hand.  He was shocked at what he was seeing, and also amazed the pen did not require to be refilled at the inkwell.  The words just kept flowing from the pen, almost faster than his hand could move along the page.

The flame from the candle on his desk was no longer flickering.  The flame was steady, and the candle wax was no longer dripping.  Something had taken over and he was scared.  He desperately wanted to know what it was he was writing.  Who, of the people he knew, could possibly read this?  Why him?  Why now?

     When the fountain pen stopped, he set it down on the page and relaxed his hand.  It was quite a workout.  Then he noticed the candle once again began to flicker.  The shadows on the walls were again dancing about.  The room again felt normal, and he could feel himself relax.  What, however, was this document that now lay before him?  Even the handwriting looked foreign to him.

to be continued