Background image via Pexels (no photographer credited on site)

James possessed magic pens. Not the type of magic requiring work of witches and wizards, nor of spells and ancient incantations. Neither did they have any peculiar or spectacular tricks. They were plain fountain pens his mother bought for him at the market, and the market, to him, was a fascinating place. Black ink was his only request. He did not care for the make or the design. The magic was in the writing. When he pressed its anxious tip into the paper his imagination drew colours and spices. The ink’s flow possessed him as equally as he possessed it.