Today’s prompt says:
Write three scenes, each from a different POV – but each scene must involve the same ballpoint pen.
bird_line

Matthew picked up the pen from behind the couch. It was dusty, covered with hair and bunnies from months of collection.

“Found it!”

He yelled above the television noise. I looked over at him angrily. That was my pen.

“GIVE IT HERE.”

He ran into the kitchen from the family room. I could smell farts in the air. God damn.

“HA HA!” He laughed like Nelson from the Simpsons.

“You want it, you gotta run through my farts, motherfucker!”

In any other household, no one would care about the pen. But we don’t have a lot of pens in this house. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to write any stories. My heart started to beat faster.

“Just give me the goddamn pen, Matthew. I’m not kidding around!”

He laughed again and ran away further. I could hear the floorboards creaking under his weight and the quick movements of his footsteps.

Well at least he was burning some calories.

*****

I saw a glimmer of something behind the couch when I went into the room. I knew it was Melissa’s pen, but didn’t say anything. Just in case she started to harass me, I figured I would find the pen and that would teach her to mess with me.

And then it started. Her talking over the television, saying things to get under my skin. She’d been looking for that thing for months and now I had the power because I knew where it was.

“Look at all that fatty foods. If America eats any more, this country will throw the earth off it’s axis!”

That was one dig.

“Hey Matty. Have the kids at school started calling you Fatty Matty yet?”

That was another, it came a few minutes later than the first.

“Look at all that Popeye’s Chicken. Do you think it ever occurred to them to put a vegetable in one of those boxed grease-meals? Oh wait. Of course. That would never occur to you.”

That was it. I reached behind the couch and picked up her dusty pen.

This will teach this dusty bitch.

*****

It was nice there, under the darkness of the family couch. Of course, Ballpoint Pen didn’t know where it was, didn’t know it was being searched for, or what the circumstances were around what was about to happen.

But under the couch, it was cool. Protected from hurling insults and petty brother-sister fights. This place behind a couch was a good spot to rest. Nevermind the collecting dust, long and short strands of hair and bits of food collected late at night.

Ballpoint Pen could rest from the feverish hands of its owner, writing foul, vile words across the pages of her diary.

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