The Pen The pen that told the truth went into the washing machine for its trouble. Came out an hour later, and was tossed in the dryer with jeans and a western shirt. Days passed while it lay quietly on the desk under the window. Lay there thinking it was finished. Without a single conviction to its name. It didn't have the will to go on, even if it'd wanted. But one morning, an hour or so before sunrise, it came to life and wrote: "The damp fields asleep in moonlight." Then it was still again. Its usefulness in this life clearly at an end. He shook it and whacked it on the desk. Then gave up on it, or nearly. Once more though, with the greatest effort, it summoned its last reserves. This is what it wrote: "A light wind, and beyond the window trees swimming in the golden morning air." He tried to write some more but that was all. The pen quit working forever. By and by it was put into the stove along with other junk. And much later it was another pen, an undistinguished pen that hadn't proved itself yet, that facilely wrote: "Darkness gathers in the branches. Stay inside. Keep still." Raymond Carver -- _______ ____________ E-mail: [email protected] ,,/\/ / \/ // / / \ http://darkshadows.org/~skyhawk =\\\\\\\============================- #define QUESTION ((bb) || !(bb)) ``\ \ \\ \ \ /\ \ / ----- ------------ --- --

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