He stared at the pen sitting on his desk. It was nothing special, but he remembered the day he had received it with perfect clarity. He had been so nervous, unable to stop crossing and crossing his legs. He had turned twenty-one that month. Every month, all of those who had turned twenty-one received a weapon that embodied them perfectly. He had hoped his was a sword. Any sword would do. He was so engrossed in his hoping that his name had to be called twice. He hopped to his feet and had to remind himself not to dash to the podium. As he approached, the shakes in his hands intensified. He took his place and waited, a man went to a table filled with red boxes and picked one up. His heart immediately fell, the box was too small to contain any type of sword. A knife maybe? He could make do with a knife. He took the box with trembling hands and opened it. He stared in shock. Inside was nothing but a simple ball point pen. It had a simple clear plastic body with a black cap. Nothing special. He shuffled back to his seat. A pen? A stupid ball-point pen? Not even a fancy fountain pen with a sharp tip. How in the world could this be a weapon? As the days and months afterwards turned into years, his question had been answered. He life came to embody the Shakespearian quote, "The pen is mightier than the sword." He had never been, nor ever would be, a great, super-athletic warrior worthy of a sword. He was a simple man who was able to write in such a way that all of the world listened. His words convicted even the most hardened of criminals and brought down the most corrupt governments. They negotiated treaties between warring nations and brought light to hidden atrocities. Yes, this simple, plastic, ball point pen embodied him better than any sword or knife ever could.
