special occasions: sheaffer imperial iv fountain pen
The moon is high and bright. So bright that you can sit next to the window under a pool of moonlight. The street below is quiet although you can hear the loud music a few streets away. You wish the streetlights were a little dimmer so you could see more of the stars. There are still some visible, not many. It’s a beautiful night, you can feel the warmer days coming. The summertime would be nicer right now, if it was warm enough outside, you could’ve sat on the balcony and enjoy the moonlight on your skin.
nothing to say: twsbi diamond 580alr fountain pen
The clouds drift in the sky, obscuring the sun for a moment. Then that moment passes, and the sun warms your skin again. It’s a cold day, the type of day that necessitates a thick coat in the shade; but when the sun comes out, it’s too warm for it. You sit on the floor, in front of the large windows to soak up all the sun you can. Another cloud races over, obscuring the sun for a moment, its edges lit up, lining them in silver. It passes. A dust particle floats in the air, sparkling under the sun.
traveling with the kaweco sport fountain pen
The train sways slightly as you watch the landscape rushes by. There is a constant chatter of people in the background. The train passes a busy highway. All those colourful cars blur into one constant line, broken only by the giant masses of the trucks driving to the harbour. Finally, the train slows down to enter a station. People get up, try to pack their bags to leave. Now, they try to rush by to leave the train before it moves away. But you stay, this is not your station yet. You keep sitting, waiting for the whistle to move on, to take you to your station.
take me out tonight: pelikan m205 petrol fountain pen
It is a cool, quiet night. The sounds of the day are far away, you can vaguely hear the cars rushing past in the highway, far away. The window is open, and in the distance you can see the tower of a church and roofs shining in the streetlights. You try to get your keys, your wallet, your phone. Don’t forget to wear shoes and take a coat.
it’s a new day: esterbrook estie nouveau blue fountain pen
The carpet on the floor muffles your steps as you climb the stairs. Happy chatter comes from above you, accompanied by sounds of cutlery clanking. There’s a faint smell of fresh cooking. You climb another floor. The windows let in a faint light, a thin layer of clouds curtaining the sun. Your shadow falls step behind you, taking the steps one at a time as well. You climb another floor. The sounds of people chatting gets fainter and fainter behind you. When you reach the door, there is no bell, no knocker. You pause for a moment. Then, slowly tap your knuckles against the aged wood.
first flowers of spring: leonardo momento zero fountain pen
There’s a crisp, biting air outside, but the sun shines. It is blinding a little, everything is too bright. Smoke rises from the chimneys, dissolving into the wind. An old record plays, people chat under your open window. It’s a slow morning, where nobody is rushing anywhere, even the cars seem to disappear. People walk and chat, kids run around. Life already feels a little better in spring after the long, groggy days of winter.
happiness in green: platinum 3776 century fountain pen
A bright green leaf tickles your nose when you enter the room. There are plants everywhere; on shelves, on the floor, hanging from the ceiling. The room smells fresh, rather like the smell of soil after rain. All that foliage drowns out the noise from outside, and you find a nice armchair to sit on. The velvety fabric is soft to your touch, bearing marks of many people who sat there before. The light comes through large windows, hitting every leaf, strange shadows playing on the bright walls. A pot of coffee sits on the small table, the mist curling around the leaves and stems.
lamy safari (do i need to say more?)
The clouds race with an invisible wind, following an invisible orbit. They look like the impossibly perfect clouds Michelangelo painted. Fluffy and white, with a silver lining right where the sun hits. It’s a deceivingly cold day. The sunlight isn’t warm. Windows are closed and shut tight, but even then, the slightest breeze comes through the cracks. It’s an old house and cracks are as inevitable as the night sky on a sunny day.
where the day meets the night: gioia alleria crepuscolo fountain pen
It is a cloudy afternoon, silvery sky a certain promise of rain after dark. The window is cracked open, letting in the smell of a storm brewing. Inside is warm, but the breeze has a bite to it, seeping into your bones. The kettle whistles, boiling water for the fragrant tea in the pot. A group of children pass under the window, chatting and laughing. While we wait for the water to boil, I start my story.
a perfect pen: lamy 2000 fountain pen
It’s completely dark outside, streets only illuminated by weak slices of streetlights. The rain has finally stopped, but the stars are covered under a thick layer of clouds. The world has quieted down, almost asleep, only noise is the occasional car splashing in the puddles on the road. Even the house seems to sigh with relief, cracking and groaning every now and then and settling for the long night to come. Music has lost its voice, almost lost through the speakers, barely audible. If you like, get your one last round of drinks, evening snacks and necessary blankets. This is the last part of this story.
two cheers for black on black on black: pilot vanishing point fountain pen
As the day wears on, so does the light. It’s almost completely faded now, leaving only the blue afterglow. The rain seems to have quieted down, but the streets are still empty, people burrowing in their warm houses. The streetlights have not switched on yet, outside world is wet, dark and empty. The music has shifted a little, the notes seem a little more pronounced, but still muffled through the speakers. Get your warmest mugs of coffee, tea or hot chocolate and gather around. It is the time for the second part of our story.
the last fountain pen on earth: 90’s harley davidson fountain pen
It is a day with a raging storm outside. The wind rustles and whistles through the crevices of the house. Rain batters the roof tiles, the sound lost in the music playing in the background. The soft chimes and the big riffs invite you to get up your seat and dance. It’s a dark day and the soft glow is all that can get through the thick clouds, painting the walls in pale shadows, not illuminating the darkest corners. I slowly turn the music down, now you can only hear the thumps of the drums through the wind. Gather around, dear readers, and let me tell you a story.