francis the jolly blue biro

In a state of complete blockedness at work, I have decided to change direction and become a bestselling children’s author like JK Rowling.

Francis the jolly blue biro: a story for children.

Once upon a time there was a blue biro called Francis, who lived on a desk in a bedroom with his friend Julian, who had a felt tip.

Francis spent his day basically lying around on the desktop, every now

and again being picked up and used to write on pieces of paper.

Sometimes he lay next to Julian, and sometimes he didn’t, but that didn’t affect their relationship overly much as sometimes felt tips and biros need a bit of personal space, as much as sometimes they need the company of other pens.

Francis and Julian, as many best friends do, enjoyed a comfortable silence for many hours together, mainly because they couldn’t talk.

Because they were pens.

 

The God of Francis and Julian’s world was a big pink person, who every now and again would scoop them from their horizontal resting Places, and prop them in a big white jar with a whole big multi-cultural community of pens, where they would nestle snugly with other biros and felt tip pens. While it was always easy to tell Julian from the other felt tip pens because they were all different colours, once Francis was in the jar with all the other blue biros, it was very difficult to tell which was.. .

Hang on. Which was he?
Oh sod it, let’s just say he was this one.

Francis had no discernable personality characteristics, being a biro, and couldn’t even write upside down.

Which was rubbish.

He was used only now and again, and one day the God of his little penny world left his lid somewhere, and didn’t put it back on again, and his little rolly nose got all dry and he couldn’t even write at all without a whole bunch of really vigorous scratching and scribbling first which was pretty sore for little Francis—or would have been apart from the fact the he wasn’t, of course, a sentient being and had no capacity to register pain.

And then one day, the big mean God of his sad little desktop world left him on the floor, and someone stood on him, and he broke in the middle and all his insides leaked out all over the carpet, and the last sounds that Francis heard, before he slipped out of this world, were angry voices cursing his very existnce,

swearing, and cursing,

and shouting.

And that was the end of Francis, and no one cared.

Not even Julian.

The End.

Oh, stop crying kid, it was only a fucking pen.

I have changed my mind, perhaps I won’t be a childrens author.