Stationary has a minion!

Doodle the Scribasor

A lost art.

Fingers ran lovingly over a myriad of papers. They reached out and felt the smooth oak of the writing desk, tracing the lines in the wood. They came up again, adjusting the pens in their holders and felt wistfully for the metal tips of the calligraphy tools.

Stationary looked about his study and sighed. His beloved instruments sat restless in their disuse. Although he himself loved the art of letter writing, he seldom had the occasion to practice it. In the age of instant messaging, emails, and text messages, the tradition of hand-written letters had fallen out of use. No one had the patience to compose a message, to carefully trace out each letter, word, and paragraph. They sought instead the fast thrill of electronic communication, which required little time and even littler effort.

Once again, the pet sighed and his eyes fell away from the writing desk. He could not understand why others did not love letters as he did. He was fascinated and comforted by the sight of others' handwriting; for, a person's handwriting told so much more than the impersonal default font. Whether it was the tall slender curves of a mother's cursive or the rounded bubbly letters of a best friend's words, the writing was unique. No two styles were exactly alike and, for one with a keen eye or a long acquaintanceship, was as singular as a fingerprint. Not that many these days would be able to recognize a letter simply by the penmanship.

He longed for the days when people kept in regular correspondence with each other through writing. He longed for the days when postal mail was a regular occurance. He longed for the days when writing a letter was considered routine.

Where did all of this go? he thought. What happened to love letters and thank-you cards and updates on life? When did we stop caring about how we write or the paper we write on? How come no kid ever stands in line at the post office, eager to send out his first letter to his grandmother? Why don't we write any letters?

Stationary stood up and approached his desk. He bustled with the papers, setting them back to their proper positions. He kept them sorted: according to their colors ranging from bleach-white to a soft cream; according to their thickness and texture; according to the letterheads he had placed on top. Each had its proper place, ready to be of service should the time come. His hand reached down to a small crystal knob and pulled open a drawer. In went the envelopes, stacked according to size. Another drawer opened and out came the cases for his fountain pens. Each pen had its own carefully-constructed case, lined with soft felt to protect the pen's glossy exterior.

At last, all was put away and he went to the door. Throwing one last, regretful look at his unemployed study, he shut the door with a soft click.



A pet alone with his oak writing desk
And papers sitting here and there and gone
But silent and unmoving, statuesque
He stays and waits for something to write on.

No letters come from the old postman now
And no one deigns to write to him or send
New tidings from their busy lives or how
Their very dearest thoughts towards him tend.

So papers, white and cream and pale, atop
His writing desk do sit. Where waiting to
Entirely no avail for mail to drop,
He weeps for the tradition no one knew.

The art of letter writing vanish did
And leave to him his passion thus forbid.


Story and poem by Shakespeare!
Art by McLaren
Profile by booglelooOverlay by User not found: seny