Word Count: 500
The Tools to Transform the World
By B.A. Sarvey
“Use the machine,” he offered. “It’s quicker.”
“Thank you, no.” She had all the tools she needed. “You can go now.” A slight motion of her hand suggested the door. She barely glanced his way as he departed.
Alone at last, she let her fingers linger over the implements, aware that this small act could change a life, the choice of one tool over another. The tool could determine the outcome of the entire enterprise. So vital, the little details. The mood influenced so easily.
She hesitated, the new pen, purchased that day at Hummel’s, a Pilot gel pen of blackest black, in her hand. The balance was good, the slim barrel a comfortable fit in her small hand. So bold, though, that fresh ebony line. Not today. Not in the mood for noir. Something softer. Her eyes focused on the green pen. Contemplative, this color, for creating an oasis of words in the blazing heat of her thoughts. Scheherazade had created an oasis in the desert, spun tale after tale without any pen or paper—transformed death into life with her words. Or so it is rumored.
“Green. Yes. A good color for planting seeds in the fertile soil of my imagination,” she decided.
Previously, she wandered a labyrinth of words and meanings, paired ‘plain’ with ‘bane’, brought a tree to life, gone on a joyride with Rosie. Today was for her. It occurred to her she had waited a very long time for this moment. A moment to savor the sibilance of cider, seduction, security, feel the words on her tongue, the shapes in her mouth like a peppermint drop, the scent prickling her nostrils, radiating to her inner ear—the cool heat infusing her brain and her chest, the meaning of each word mingling with the emotional response triggered by its sound, the sight of it on the page. Enraptured, she closed her eyes, let her thoughts drift, unguided, until they settled at the oasis. A quiet tale, then. The mood decided by the green pen and her solitude. She set pen to paper, an old notebook she often used for scribbling ideas, partial poems, first lines, words. Words she loved, words she didn’t know the meanings of, words that rhymed, homonyms, synonyms. Words.
“Why do you do this?” someone once asked.
“Because this is what I do,” she had replied.
“But why? Why would you want to?”
“Because I am a writer,” she said.
With a twist of her wrist, she could change the world. Well, not the entire world. Maybe just a corner of it. Maybe just one person. And wouldn’t that be worth the effort of getting it right? To transform a life—what more could any doctor or teacher ask for? To transform a life—what more could a writer ask for?
Out of the green pen, she squeezed, “Once upon a time, a little widow woman sat in her ivory tower, day after day, night after night, and put words on paper….”