Walking around the back of the store, I find it funny that there are so many pens for nearly every occasion. Technically a highlighter is a pen depending on its use, detail pens for art, pens for writing, pens for editing. They are nearly as varied as colored pencils in that sense. Reaching for the pack of art pens I need, something catches my eye.

It's a fountain pen, sitting in a lone bin of solo ballpoints. Picking it up, I feel drawn to it, the barrel is a glossy shiny, an emerald green varnish on wood. The tip of the fountain pen is gold, and there is golden filigree on the barrel creating an interesting patterning. Almost like golden marbling. This seems so expensive and yet it's sitting in the dollar bin for cheap pens. Should I? Maybe. What if it is more expensive than I can afford? But it's so intricately designed.

Grabbing the pack of fine point pens and holding onto the fountain pen, circling around the maze-like path of the pen aisle and spit back out to the front line. Richard is standing around the register, looking bored. It's just another slow Saturday.

"Got what you need?" he ask me.

"Yes," I tell him, "Can I get a price check on this?" I place down the fountain pen, Richard's eyes go wide for a second, he whistles.

"Where did you find that?" he ask.

"In the dollar pen bin," I tell him, "It seems too expensive for that."

"Yeah, let me see if I can look it up," he picks it up to search for a barcode, "It has no barcode. Let's see." he begins to type into his computer, "Green fountain pen." he takes a second. Scrunching up his face in thought, "The only one I can find on our sight. Looks." he turns the screen around to show a cheap plastic 9 dollar green pen, "Tell you what. Just take it someone might have dropped, but there is no name on it or anything."

"Can I just take it?" I ask him.

Richard looks at me, "Out of all the things karma could get you for, it's not going to be a fountain pen."

"All right," I am also wondering what kind of tale I can tell with it. Thinking about the journals at home all waiting for pen to paper. Maybe I can write about that. This seems like that type of pen. Doesn't it? A story about karma, just desserts.

Setting the pens I can pay for in front of him and pocketing the green one.

"Already have an idea?" he ask me.

"Yes,"

"Going to tell me what about,"

"Oh just a story about karma," I tell him.

"You're going to have to let me read some of it sometime,"

"Maybe,"

"So stingy, for that pack, we're looking at 12.35," Richard states, taking out the twenty I earned at the end of the week for helping out around the house.

"I rather not have others put value to my work,"

"You're the weirdest kid I know, here's your change, 7.65," Richard smiles, "Can you give me a little hint about the story?"

"It involves someone eating their own words," I smile back.

"That's so metaphoric I am not even sure what you're trying to convey,"

"That's the point, thank you," I grab my pack of pens and change.

Normally I would stay and chat, but I haven't been hit with inspiration like this in a long while. There is excitement, even anticipation to go home and attempt to tell the tale of karma. I love finding something that sparks a bit of eagerness in me, something that inspires me. I want to get home as quickly as I can to jot this down, why didn't I bring a journal with me? I don't know. I guess I just didn't consider finding such an interesting item.

Walking back to the bus stop, I take the pen out. It's too weird for someone to have dropped it, but it also isn't an item in their inventory. It has no name on it. And no one came back to claim it? As someone considered creative, it's funny how an object like this sparks curiosity, where did it come from, who did it belong to? Was it okay for me to simply take it? Yet, I don't know how to explain it. It doesn't feel like any of those things either. I am sure someone has found a five or ten dollar bill on the ground and felt it was just luck or meant to be.

Maybe I was meant to find it? I do wonder if someone will return looking for it, but this isn't something someone just drops in a dollar bin of cheap pens. If it fell out of someone's pocket, then wouldn't it be found on the floor? I'm sure it's all just purely luck. Stepping onto the bus, and pocketing the pen back into my pocket.

The driver smiles at me, "Welcome, how's your afternoon sweetie?" she ask.

"It's going well, and yours?" I ask.

"Mine is going just swell, thank you for asking,"

This is pretty normal, I technically know her by face, she's a regular bus driver and I regularly ride the bus. I just can't recall her name at the moment, since we don't talk often enough. I don't think I ever gave her my name, but she always talks to me like this.

"Well, I hope your day stays swell," I tell her with a smile.

"Well aren't you sweet," after paying with my transfer ticket, I found somewhere to sit in the front. I don't care to sit in the back or feel crowded in the middle. I also want to get home as quickly as possible. Taking out the pen, enamored by it's golden filigree, it's marbling design. Spinning it around in the light of the windows pouring out of the bus.

A story about karma. I know which one to tell and this pen will tell.