When I was in the fifth grade, I dared to be different. Most of the other kids in my class were using ballpoint pens. Not me though. My choice of writing instrument was a fountain pen. A classy Parker fountain pen.
It was one of those fountain pens where you inserted a small, frosted plastic tube filled with ink (aka, the cartridge) into the barrel of the pen, and then screwed the nib onto the barrel. The inside end of the nib would penetrate the cartridge so that the ink in the cartridge’s reservoir would flow down to the nib’s point when pressed onto the paper. It was a magnificent piece of engineering.
And to further differentiate myself, I used turquoise ink. Not blue, not black. Turquoise!
My homework and my in-class papers were easily recognizable because of the color of the ink I used. No one else in my class used turquoise ink. No one else dared used turquoise ink.
I was a weird kid in the fifth grade. Fortunately, I had grown out of my turquoise fountain pen phase by the time I entered the sixth grade.
Written for today’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt from Linda G. Hill. The challenge this week was to write a post using the word “ink.”