Calligraphy had always been his passion. The smell of old parchment, the way it crinkled and curled. The thick feel of vellum between fingertips, but most of all was the elegant curves of the perfect fountain pen. Sharp nibs that left a fine line on the page and a skritching sound that recalled ancient writers, how writing should be done. Each stroke of the pen deliberate, quick, and irrevocable. The stroke could not be recalled, undone. The mark left on the page was indelible. The pen did more than leave ink, but dug into the page etching it permanently with the author's words and passions.Today he had a new pen, one that left more permanent marks, one that he had grown even more fond of as time went by. No ink was necessary. With each stroke he made, the letters would fill themselves in. The knife's point was far sharper than a fountain pen's nibs, as sharp as a surgeon's scalpel. He took up his pen, and set point to the special paper.
A muffled scream, the rag gag did not do it's job completely, and the man wriggled in protest at the sharp point. The young stock broker did not look nearly as impressive without his European suit.
"You mustn't wriggle. I have a very important message to leave. If you move, the message will be ruined, and I will have to begin again."
Tears welled up in the young man's eyes, but he did not move this time. That was good. The last man had sobbed horrendously, marring the wonderful calligraphy. He began to carve, taking the sharp, thin strokes of his message, and he smiled. Perhaps next time he would leave a haiku. Yes, that would fit the calligraphy perfectly.