PENGICIAN (The War Of The Scribes) *fantasy*
“Remember, the more your writing tugs at the imagination, the easier the creation. Figures of speech have been created for just this purpose,” he said and walked around the class, observing the young faces straining with concentration. A pen quivered on a little boy’s table and he caught it before it fell off. He replaced it and smiled at the boy.
“The more you observe, the more you can picture, the more you can picture, the more of a god you’re becoming.” He stared at his son in front of the class, a little boy with the blond hair of foreigners. His face was a painting of peace and tranquility, his hands were clasped before him with his eyes shut, and shortly, his pen started a dance on a book lying atop his desk. He watched the little boy, fascinated, until his head felt heavy. He found a seat to sit his frail tall frame on. He was an old man, a veteran of the revolution, ten centuries old, but he knew his time was near. He had a head full of grey hair and the wrinkles had started to set in around his eyes. For a man of his age, he was unbelievably young, impossibly young. But then, with the wielders of the pen, nothing was impossible anymore.
The revolution had been quick and unbelievable, the dream had been short lived, the good men decieved and almost extinguished, and once again tyrants ruled the realms of men. He remembered the President’s last words as he stood watching him being strangled to death by his shoe laces. Those words were too low to be heard but his imagination brought them clearly to his ears : man will always be a traitor, the good will die, the bad will live. He had gone to close his big notebook then and stared at what his pen had written, directed by his mind:
‘The President’s shoe laces squirm like snakes and take a life of their own; in the darkness, they strangle the President to death.’
“Scribe, what will we imagine?”
The young voice drove him from his reverie.
“Anything, little writer, anything.” He coughed and stared at his ancient pen on his ageless notebook, he felt something, uneasiness. He closed his eyes, and the book together with the pen glided onto his hands. He searched the building with his eyes, his imagination reaching into the darkest corners of the underground hall, he saw nothing, but the feeling remained.
“Remember concord, use your punctuations, and do not fail to capitalise where necessary. . .”
“Scribe, eh?” The voice had come from behind him and he immediately spurn around to see his dread in flesh. He mouthed silent words and moved slowly backwards as the children watched.
“What have we here? An army to unseat the pengicians?” The figure robed in black, that had just materialised from thin air, strode forward with a swagger.
“How old are they? Six? Seven? I can kill them like flies.”
“You have no business here, Tyrion.” The old man’s face was set tight, but fear stared out from his eyes, fear for the little children.
“Papa, does he want to hurt you?” Young Manuel, the blond hair, stood up staring at Tyrion and his pen began to race through his books. An empty desk at the back of the classroom flew through the air aimed at Tyrion, but scattered into fragments before it reached the penwitch.
“Haha, such spirit.” Tyrion’s laughter was like the rough grating of iron against iron.
“Stop it, Manuel.”
A knife appeared in mid air, aimed for Manuel’s throat, and was jerked to a sudden stop. The Scribe’s face was cold and strained with concentration; Tyrion’s eyes were wide with fury and his teeth clenched, his facial muscles were belaboured as he struggled to assert control. The scribe’s pen bounced and scratched on his note, and the knife dissolved into smoke. . .