Wingpen (Fantasy)

The Gift I received was a pen. Gifts were never elaborate, but their appearance did mark them as something different, something special. My pen was made of polished wood, with a shiny metal tip. The handwritten letter than accompanied it said this:

The ink inside your pen will never run dry. Use your Gift wisely and well. From now on, your name will be Wingpen. Signed, Giver

“How will I know how to use it wisely?” I asked my parents. “What is this gift for?”

“The Giver gives nothing idly,” my father replied. “He knows you better than you know yourself, and his gift will teach you as you walk your path.”

“How will I know what is my path?” I asked, my heart fluttering. “Or whether it will lead me to the right place?”

“You will see signs,” my mother answered. “Your Gift will show you small glimpses of the Giver along the way. If your gift shows you images of the Taker, choose another path.”

Like all receivers, I feared the long, lonely path ahead. Some of my friends had been so fearful of walking a path toward the Taker that they had rooted themselves to the ground, and never used their Gifts. Some wandered aimlessly from path to path, never exercising their Gifts for long. They did not see signs of the Taker, but they did not see signs of the Giver either.

My parents had drilled into my head since I was very young that a receiver must continue to press forward, even through doubt, and to seek for signs of the Giver through persistence and through use of my Gift. From what I could see, it was good advice, but I was the oldest of my siblings and felt the weight of my own example heavily. My siblings would soon come after me, and I did not want to lead them down dangerous paths.

I set out on my journey to the Giver. 

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