Karthika Parvathy
Stories (1/0)
A Fountain Pen and A Little Black Book
A death deserves a wake. People dressed in black, the color of the little notebook in which her name was written in blue ink. Fountain pens were such an old thing. It was strange that her husband used them. They always seemed so messy to her. There would be a spot on his desk for them, however, in a house they planned to buy. A house that would be their own when they had the money. No more shoddy heating, no more pot smokers in the dirty hallways that smelled of urine. New York City apartments were tough. Especially the pre-war ones in Washington Heights. They lived in an apartment building right off the 1 train station on Dyckman. It was a stone’s throw from the Bronx. There was no land, she could not grow her own vegetables. There was no room for a writing desk for him. It was such a shame, because he started college again two years ago, after having dropped out ten years before that. He wanted to be a fiction writer. Fantasy fiction, to be exact. He loved the world of magic and dragons, of elves and mages. And his writing had gotten exponentially better in the last two years. She was never sure that they would have the money to buy that house, though. Not on the combined pay of a security guard and a nurse. Both overworked and underpaid.
By Karthika Parvathy3 years ago in Humans