Mr Wright - Purveyor of Fine Handcrafted Pens

"You don't choose the pen... The pen chooses you." said Mr Wright raising a wispy eyebrow above his gold rimmed spectacles.
A small olive tree was in front of the door and the mustard carpet forked around the tree to his table and rocking chair.

The wall was paneled in ancient gnarled olive wood, harvested from deepest darkest Spain. The floorboards were varnished English oak, salvaged from old treasure chests. An Edison bulb with a filament shaped into a tree was all that lit the back half of this narrow shop.

Inside the crevices of the gangly olive limbs, pens glistened. The fittings were golden, silver, bronze, green, blue and red. The stems - English cherry, Rosewood, African Ebony, Birch, Yew, Apple, Plum, Hornbeam, Chestnut, Elm and many more varieties that he'd haggled from wood yards on his travels.

The girl in front of him, about 11 or 12 stared around the place, mouth agog in amazement.
"This is like nothing I've seen before."

"We did try" replied the owner wearily, scouting through the ledges - sensing for something that would fit. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyebrows and replaced them on his nose.

He fumbled through, looking for something that would be right for the girl. He stooped down to look at something. But no. that wasn't right. She would have to pick it herself.

"I make these all myself. Every one is unique, so there will never be one again like the one you buy. You'll also get a certificate of authenticity with each one. I'll let you browse, then when something jumps out at you let me know".

He sat down and shook the newspaper he was reading and turned a page.

Out of the corner of her eye something got her attention. Its wood had an orange eerie glow. She stared at it. There were swirls and lines and darker curlicues. She lifted it up and weighed it in her hand. The fittings were golden and curvaceous.
She twisted it and the nib came out.

The man finished the article he was on and put the paper down.

"Oh that is Spalted Maple with Patrizio-style fittings."

"How come the wood is like this?"

"Well on the edge of trees where they can't grow much, or when the tree's been diseased or if there's been a wound, you get these wonderful patterns and burrs."

He pulled a slice of wood out from under the counter and pointed at the edges with his little finger.

"The lumber yards don't like these bits. They're odd shapes and sizes and don't work for making beds and furniture and fence panels or whatever industrial use they have for them. They call them the offcuts and they'll give me a sack of them for next to nothing."

"Then what do you do with them?" she asked.

"I turn them in my workshop over there" he pointed to the back door.

"Can I see?" she asked enthusiastically.

"There's not much to see but of course you can"

He led the way, opening the door into a brick alleyway and into the workshop behind the shopfront.

"Close the door behind you"

This room was much brighter with a corrugated metal roof and harsh fluorescent lighting. They could taste the sawdust in the air that hadn't yet landed on the floor.

"This is where the work happens. So here, I take a log like this and then I cut it into slices with the band saw, you see that over here. Then I chop that slice into cuboids and these make pen blanks" he was dashing about and pontificating as he spoke.
She examined the examples in his hands.

"Then I drill holes through the centre and glue in the metal tubes. And after that I take it to the lathe and whittle it down into the curvey shape it needs to be." he grabbed a few works in progress off of a shelf.

"Finally I polish it with a special resin that gives it that glassey finish." he gave her one of her latest pens that was still warm to the touch.

"It's amazing. Where do you get your ideas from?" she said, while he paused for breath.

"I watch a lot of youtube video. There are these guys in America who make pens out of trouser-denim, and put holes through and make Dalmatian style pens. Then sometimes I see a new style or pen kit and like to experiment with it."

She led the way back to the shopfront impressed with her morning's adventure.

He clicked the door shut, returned through the alley between the moss covered walls and into the dim shop again.
She was looking over the Spalted Maple pen again. It had something about it that intrigued her, it seemed to have a life of its own as she moved it under the bulb.

"I'll take it." she said, placing it on the desk.

"That's 35 pounds please."

She pulled out her purse and she started to worry.

"Oh, I only got £30 for my birthday" she said looking glumly.

He looked at her and hummed to himself.

"I suppose the pen chose you - go on then... I'll let you have it for 30."

Her face lit up and he wrapped it in a little case and put it in brown paper bag. 'Wright & Sons' had been stamped across the side in black ink.

He handed the girl her purchase and placed the crisp notes into his wallet.
"Bye bye"

"Bye bye, missus."

She ran back to her terraced home a few streets away, eager to show her mum, dad and brother what she'd got with her birthday money.

He sighed and settled back into his newspaper, taking a sip of his cold tea.

Meanwhile in the study upstairs, his son was penning another story.

Mr Wright does in fact exist in real life, he accepts Steem and offers international shipping. If you're interested in purchasing a pen, drop a message in the comments below and I will send you the latest collection.