A Sheltered Quill

I noticed a smooth wooden fountain pen rolling lazily across the varnished desk, its uncapped nib exposed to the open room. Slipping down from the clock ledge, I padded across the blotter. Right beside a stack of cream stationery sat a heavy ceramic pen mug lined with cork at the base. I braced both my soft plush hands against the dark wooden barrel, carefully steering the rolling pen toward the hollow vessel. With a slow, deliberate lift, I tilted it upward until the slender body dropped softly into the cup, cushioned upright against the interior rim. The nib is safe from sudden slips now.