A Silver Cylinder

A narrow column of polished brass rose nearby, anchored by a heavy base. I stepped away from the wooden shelf. Each stride required precise alignment of hip and knee hinges. Near the floor lamp rested a discarded silver-plated ballpoint pen. I approached and crouched low. Placing one finger at the grooved seam, I nudged it forward. It rolled three inches, casting thin streaks of warm light across the lacquered floorboards. Its balance point shifted effortlessly. I pressed the clicker at its end; an internal spring snapped into tension, echoing crisply against my ribs.