The Life of a Pencil, part 7 (word count: 892)

Part 7

Horace, you've got to help me come up with something.

"I am not incapable of mental effort. I do however find the ratio between the force I am able to put forth and the immovable object you are asking me to move quite a daunting statistic."

I know Ms. Mackelheim is a big hitch in my plans, but I'm not spending the rest of my days in the office. Stop looking at me like that. We're just made for different lives, that's all. Cut from different cloths.

"I suppose if you truly feel that way, I can try to come up with some solution."

That's all I want. One solution that will work. That's all we need! Just one fix-it-all scheme. What about a fire drill? If the bell went off while someone was writing a note with me, maybe they would be so alarmed that they would take me with them.

"I detest puns."

What?

"You said someone would be 'alarmed' when they heard the fire alarm."

I didn't mean it as a pun. Really. I'm not that clever. You know what, Horace? I'm actually getting sick of hearing myself talk. Talk, talk, talk. It's like all I do. And I'm really negative, have you noticed that? And I'm not satisfied with anything. I don't even enjoy writing--I've locked down my senses or something. I write but without any passion. That can't be right, can it?

"You did it again."

What?

"That cannot be 'right' that you do not like to 'write.'"

Honestly, Horace, I'm not trying to be funny. I'm sincerely sorry it sounds like I am. I'm actually being serious. I can't stand myself anymore! Not like this. It's like ever since I popped out of the factory, I've been poor me this and poor me that and if only, if only, if only. It's like I've parodied "When You Wish Upon a Star."

When you live as if you wish
Then your wish makes your life swish
Nothing ever settles down
To life so bland.

When you wish your life was not
What it is than you feel stopped
Nothing ever feels right
Cuz you want more!

I can't live like that, Horace. I can't. I won't. I've got to change. I've got to be happier. Happier, Horace, happier! Teach me how to be happier.

"I would suggest succumbing to office life. It is the happiest life I know."

It is the only life you know.

"It is the only life I wish to know."

I'm not surrendering to office life, Horace. Office life is so, so--

"When you wish upon a star
Makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires
Will come to you.

If your heart is in your dream
No request is too extreme
When you wish upon a star
Like dreamers do."

Horace, I didn't know you can sing!

"Naturally. I have been trained under all the great voice artists."

Haha! Hahahaha! You've trained under them. And the radio speakers are above our heads. Haha!

"I am not amused. I am not amused at all."

But, Horace, are those really the words to the song?

"They are."

Well that's ridiculous. Anything my heart desires will come to me? That's not true! No request is too extreme and it doesn't matter who you are? I'm a pencil just wanting to be used for something great, but do you see my wish coming true? No! So as of right now, I'm giving up. Don't shake your head incredulously at me. I'm giving up. Whatever happens, happens.

"Que sera, sera
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera, sera
What will be, will be."

Horace, you're like an office juke box. Where's that song from?

"Doris Day crooned it. I am surprised you do not know it."

Aw, don't be offended, Horace! I haven't trained under the speakers like you have. I've been locked up in backpacks and--no, I'm not going to complain anymore. I'm going to be happy. I'm going to take the future one day at a time. Let bygones be bygones. Que sera, sera--that's my motto. Whatever will be, will be.

"It is a beneficial philosophy."

Isn't it though? One moment at a time, Horace. No more thoughts for tomorrow. I'll be happier from now on. Happy, happy, happy.

"You will be an imitation of Pollyanna."

Now you're talking my language! I might not know music, but I know my books. Oh hey, look! Another hot lunch order form. Oh, isn't this great! Really great! If it weren't for me, this child wouldn't get a lunch. How fulfilling! How absolutely amazing.

"Notoo, I may be dedicated to my work, but you do seem to be, as they put it, 'laying it on thick.'"

Just changing my mindset, Horace ol' boy. Shifting my perspective. What's this now? A early leave checkout? Perfect! Just my cup of tea! If it wasn't for us office pencils, that child would never get to--what are we writing--ah yes, the dentist. That child would never get to go to the dentist. Office work truly is important work, Horace, my man. It really is. Really really. Nothing like it. So exhilarating.

"My thoughts exactly."

Horace?

"Yes, Notoo?"

I need to hear another round of Que Sera, Sera.

"My pleasure."

The Life of a Pencil, part 6 (word count: 651)

"Horace, what do you mean there is no way for me to get back to Florence?"

"I did not say there was 'no way.' I said the possibilities of an office pencil being removed from its post and taken to a classroom is highly rare."

"Well, there must be some way. Children come in here all the time--I've seen them. Band-Aids, notes from the teacher, picking up copies for the teacher, leaving early cuz they're sick. Surely at some point they'd, oh I don't know, accidentally take a pencil with them? Don't kids do that?"

"Ms. Mackelheim would not permit it."

Ms. Mackelheim. Right. The head of the office.

That stunt I pulled to get me out of the classroom was a piece of cake compared to this situation. Ms. Mackelheim was like duct tape. Nothing moved unless she declared it should. And then it flew to get out of here.

Oh that Ms. Mackelheim would ordain that I should fly--I'd fly right back to--

What am I talking about?

I don't want to go back to the classroom.

Ok, no, you're not losing your mind. You just want to go grab Florence and get out of here. I'm not forsaking my dream. I just know I can't do it without Florence.

I can still write the next Ivanhoe. Or the next Emma. I am not biased to one great work over another.

I only ever wanted to make a difference. That's a good thing, right?

So why does everything seem to be going against me?

Let's review the facts, shall we? First, I was stuck in an office supply store. Then, I was used to write "My brthday is Decembr 3." Yes, that is the spelling that was used with my graphite. I escaped the suffocation of the classroom only to discover that I was not meant to spend days and nights in the fresh air either. I wasn't meant to only see children's feet kicking me across very hard, very bumpy asphalt. And, I'll admit it, I may have re-lived those few moments of writing, even if by a child's hand.

Glorious, glorious moments.

Even now I can recall the feeling of exhilaration at writing for the very first time.

Florence would be pleased that I'm looking back with rose-colored glasses. She'd say school isn't that bad.

She hasn't been to the office yet.

If I thought child's scrawl was a waste of my life, filling out forms is worse. Infinitely worse.

Horace thrives on it. I don't understand. He thrives on the swift "$12.00 hot lunch" or "10:30am sick" memos that seem to be the lot of office life. He actually is satisfied here. No, he even thinks it is an honor. A solemn duty.

He accepts office life as his destiny and, get this, he enjoys it.

He reminds me a lot of Florence.

Ok, Florence doesn't feel the need to talk in complete sentences. Or use "nevertheless" and "heretofore." Florence is okay with splitting an infinitive. It's called real life.

But Horace is content. And optimistic. And he supports my dreams even though he has, like, no sympathy at all for them.

Honestly, I think he was pretty disappointed that I didn't want to join forces with him and take on the office world like two twin pencils crossing blades. We could have been the team of No. 2 HB.

Because that's not been done before.

I feel for the man, really. I know what it's like to be alone. I was alone for so long before Florence interrupted my melodramatic thoughts. Everyone needs a good friend.

Which is why I have to get back to Room 9.

I need my friend. And I need to find my destiny before all my graphite is used up in writing, "Bug man called. 10:05am. Will call back."

Seriously.

So how can I take on Ms. Mackelheim?

The Life of a Pencil, part 5 (word count: 1,032)

Part 5

To whom it may concern:

This Oral History is being written approximately 4 days after the previous entry. The preceding account I fear lacked some of the, shall we say, "culture" expected of pencils in most generations. Understanding that decorum has oft disappeared from this generation, I am still quite shocked by what my acquaintance Notoo (a peculiar name by all accounts) felt compelled to declare at the last reading of this epistle. However, after hearing his story, I am convinced it was mostly spoken under duress. When he arrived in my working place two days later, he was under the influence of an insanity bred from loneliness, disappointment, and dehydration.

Pardon me, I have been amiss in introducing myself. I am Horace Bailey. Mum calls me Horace. All of my acquaintances, both slight and intimate, call me Horace. My sister calls me HB. Alas, she was transferred to the junior high sector while still impressionable and has lost all the moorings Mum and I tried to impart to her in her fragile youth. As is evident from her creating such an unacceptable and trendy moniker for her older brother, she has succumbed to the leniency associated with the hooligans she writes for and is gone the way of all informal societies.

I share this with you only to give you a sense of the gravity with which I assure you that you will naturally feel most comfortable calling me "Horace." To clarify, you will not call me "HB," but Horace.

With that clear, I wish to explain a little of my association with the previously mentioned Notoo. Notoo was unceremoniously deposited in my jar the day before last, obviously delirious from neglect.

"Pardon me," I said, "but do you need help?"

However, he was too far incapacitated to tell me anything of his history until yesterday. So I continued about my job.

As you are not familiar with my job, I will explain. I work in the school office. I am used by human hands to fill out tardy slips, hot lunch tickets, phone messages, fundraiser order forms, and, most importantly, the concluding details of student applications. What I do is of the utmost importance for the maintenance of this institution. I have willingly accepted the responsibility bestowed on me as an office pencil and formally, in the presence of witnesses, declared my vow to maintain the clarity and accuracy so necessary to my work.

Obviously I could not allow one, seemingly inebriated, pencil to distract me from my duty.

Nevertheless, this lone pencil drew my interest and, I admit, my curiosity.

The day and night passed, and he was still unable to communicate more than words at a time. Variations of the phrase "great and important work" seemed to be the only thoughts occupying his demented mind.

I wondered at this. Perhaps in him I would find the comradeship that so few pencils understand today. I speak of the comradeship between those who understand the great and important duty given to pencils today. In the face of computers, tablets, smart phones, and other electronic means of note-taking, we carry on the tradition of "hard copy," as they lovingly deem it today. We provide a "paper trail," that is not subject to the whims of contrary technology.

I allowed myself to hope that Notoo would be a fellow agent in the task of maintaining office standards amid a derelict society.

It was not to be.

To be the lone beacon of professionalism in a world of trite nonsense is my burden to bear.

I bear it with all solemnity.

As for Notoo, his aspirations reached into a different sphere than mine. As he has proven quite verbose on the subject, I will abstain from repeating his words here.

Although we are quite different, we are similar in one: we are both pencils. Therefore, when he finally grew lucid, I listened with all the respect due one of my kind, even as I realized we were from vastly different worlds. I listened to his woe-begone tales of rolling about in the asphalt. I did not doubt his word; his body was full of barely perceptible pock-marks. Hairline streaks of tar added to the proof. Sorrowed to see an apparently new pencil brought down so low in the world, I attempted to cheer him up.

"The office maintains a temperature of 70 degrees Fahrenheit in the winter and 76 degrees Fahrenheit in the summer," I assured him. "The office staff ensure that all office pencils stay here. You will never be jarred around in the hands of an infant again."

"But what about Florence?" he ejaculated.

"What is a Florence?" I inquired, my curiosity again piqued.

"Florence is my best friend! My chum! My steady anchor when my world tilts sidewise! If Florence had been here do you think I would have gone crazy in the sun? No! She would have spoken quiet words of truth to me. And sure, I might not have listened at first, but I definitely wouldn't have yammered to the asphalt. I was actually talking to the asphalt. Can you believe it, HB, I mean Horace? I can't believe it. How ridiculous can I be? It was the sun. Really, it was the heat. I wasn't used to it. I'll be more careful about getting left out outside from now on. But I've got to get back to Florence! I know you've been really good to me, and I definitely needed to recover here, and, hey, the temperature really is perfect, but I can't stay here in the office. You've got to help me get back to the classroom."

I have had a full day and night to accept this truism: As the apple does not fall far from the tree, neither does a pencil that has spent its formative moments of writing in an elementary classroom have anything in common with the office pencil.

Notoo tried to declaim any attachment to the classroom from which he had rolled. It was apparent to me, however, that whether it be Florence or some invisible force, something was drawing him back to Room 9, despite violent declarations to the contrary.

The Life of a Pencil, part 4 (word count: 1,566)

Part 4a

"All right, children, the first thing I want you to do is fill out this Get-to-Know-You page. Write your name at the top."

I can feel grubby little fingers searching through the crayons. Yes, search away. You had to put the crayons on top of the pencils so now you'll have to work extra hard to find me. Oh no. I just thought of something. What if she does grab me? She can't choose me. I'm not ready for this!

You are SO ready for this!

Maybe she'll grab another pencil. Of course, she'll grab another pencil. Why would she grab me? Me of all pencils. Please, grab another pencil! Aaah! Noooo! She's grabbing me! What do I do? What do I do?

You do what you were made to do, Notoo! You write!

But I've never written before! You don't get it--I've literally never written before!

I haven't either!

What if I make a mistake?

You WILL make a mistake! That's what your eraser is for.

Ack! Oooh! Haha! The paper tickles! Oh!

Are you okay?

I- I think so. This is kinda--wow. I am writing. I am actually writing. Florence! I'm writing!

Congratulations!

For the first time I'm--whoah! She's turning me upside down. No! Not my unused rubber head! Not the fresh out of the factory eraser! Ack! Ack! Ack! Pink shavings everywhere. Ok, phew, that's over with. Haha! More tickling. Oh, I never imagined. Florence, Florence!

Yes, Notoo?

I wish you could experience this. It's-- it's actually amazing!

Tell me about it. Describe it so I can pretend I'm writing too.

Okay. Um. Well, I feel paper under my lead. It's smooth but scratchy at the same time. I feel the firm grasp of skin and muscle on my barrel. I feel my tip being honed and shaped and dulled--a thousand sensations at once. I'm getting smaller, but it's like I'm more powerful at the same time. I'm being used up, but, but . . .

I feel fulfilled.

That's what I feel--fulfilled.

Oh no, I feel fulfilled.

That's wonderful!

No! It's not! I can't feel fulfilled writing what? "7 years old" and "My favorite color is orange"? Ack! This child's handwriting! It's horrific. Florence! Why does this feel so good?

Because this is what you were designed to do!

No, no! Oh, I'm tingling. My nerves are on end. I can feel each push of her thumb and forefinger. All those days smashed into our cardboard pencil container--I didn't know! I didn't know what I was missing. I didn't know this is what I needed, to be held by a human hand and to write. I mean, I knew, but I didn't, you know? It's like a part of me--wait a minute. What on earth? How many fingers is she using to write with? Her whole fist? Agh! I can hear the scratch of my graphite against the sheet. Like literally, I can almost hear pieces of me being left behind on the page. I'm terrified. I must be hyperventilating. I feel like my heart is soaring. Everything is turned upside down, but I want to write more. Oh and how! I'm writing. I'm actually writing! I can't enjoy this. I can't! It's wrong! I was supposed to belong to someone else! To a professional! To the next Mark Twain! I was supposed to write something more perfect than--ack! she wrote the letter "b" backwards! AND the letter "d." This is worse than my worst fears! No. I refuse to enjoy myself. Refuse. Refuse.

But you are enjoying yourself. I can tell.

Florence, I am. It's horrible!

I wish I was with you!

I've got to shut down. I've got to stop feeling. I can't feel fulfilled in a schoolroom. I won't.

If I focus really hard--yes, I'll imagine I'm back in the storeroom. I'm still fresh and unused. My whole life is still ahead of me. I still might be picked up by the next Norman Rockwell. I won't feel pleasure. I won't enjoy. I'll save up my writing for my true destiny.

I'll escape. That's what I'll do. Somehow, I've got to escape. I'll get out of here.

Notoo--no!

If only . . . . I will manage it somehow. The child is putting me down. The teacher is talking. How will I escape? I must find my true destiny. I will. I must.

The teacher is handing them clipboards. They have an outside assignment. This is my chance. I'm going outside. If I can just roll off this clipboard . . . .

Fresh air! It's . . . smelly. Is this what fresh air smells like? It doesn't smell like the factory or the store or the house or the classroom. Ah-Ah-ACHOO! Ah, great, I'm allergic to fresh air. Well, what does it matter? This is my ticket to freedom. Scratch, scratch, scratch! Try not to use up all my graphite, midget scribbler. I've got more important people needing me.

Whoah! Whoah! Whoah! Lotsa running with a pencil. Scribbler child, hasn't anyone ever taught you not to run with a pencil? I might fly up and poke your eye out. Not intentionally. I'm not a monster. Ambitious for greater things, but not a monster. Sloooow down. Please. Good. Thank you. Ok, yes, scratch, scratch, scratch away. What are we writing? Oh ok. You see a bird. In a tree. Good. Is this an observation assignment or something? How about you add in an adjective? You do not know what an adjective is? What about blue bird? Red bird? Gray bird? Not ringing a bell? *sigh* I guess that's what you're in school for. Wait until you learn these things, kid. That's when the fun begins.

Ok, bell is ringing. Teacher's calling us back. And we're off running again! I'm trying to hold on. I don't want to poke you, kid. But, ack, ack, ack! Aaaaahhhhhhh! Through the air! Flying! Free-fall!

Ow! Hard asphalt on wooden barrel equals pain. Shooting pain.

Rolling, rolling. Can't control the rolling.

Bumpy black asphalt. Friction. Slowing down.

No way.

I had to stop right in the middle of the playground?

Really?

Fine, I'll just wait.

Wait a minute--

I'm--no . . .

I'm free?

I escaped?

I did!

I'm free! Florence, I'm free!

Florence?

Oh.

But that's okay. Florence wanted to be in school. She wanted to be held by short fingers that alternatively pick a nose and then hold a pencil. She was okay with that life. 2+2 is 4, and desk is spelled d-e-s-k. She was fine with that.

She knew I'd take the first opportunity I could get to be free.

She knew.

I'm free. I actually did it. I actually escaped!

Wow.

So this is what freedom feels like.

I'm not packed like sardines with a bunch of other packs in a factory box.

I'm not crammed in with 11 other pencils in our pack.

I'm not stuffed into a pencil box, mixing with markers and crayons and decaying erasers.

I'm actually free.

So then.

Well.

Hm.

What now?

I suppose I am in the exact place I need to be for destiny to find me.

Yes. I will wait here for fate to have a second chance to take me to where I'm meant to be.

Part 4b

Oral History. Oh, Oral History. To the Oral History of yore. Or of the future. To the future. Oral History to those who shall come after me. Way, way after me. So far after me that they shall wonder at my strange words and marvel that we ever survived these days.

I've been laying her for, oh, I don't know. Hours? Days? Weeks? The sun--that great celestial orb that has been the muse for many a poetic ramble--is hot. Very, very hot.

I heard from an encyclopedia I once knew--so very long ago it seems now--that wood is not a conductor for heat.

The encyclopedia lied.

The sun is very hot.

The sun is very hot.

I said that already, didn't I?

If Tolkien were to come pick me up, he would declare the day as hot as the fires of Mordor and would snatch me up to safety as surely as Frodo tried to keep the ring from falling to its destruction.

It was very noisy earlier today. There were many feet scrambling across the blacktop. I was kicked in the side a few times. Spiraled a few feet. And then baked some more.

No one, I repeat, no one, has thought to pick me up.

If they have, they have not acted on it.

No little voices said, "Oooh, look! A pencil!"

No teacher said, "Johnny, pick up that nice new pencil and bring it back to our classroom so you can learn to write neatly."

'Twould seem a mercy.

Assuredly and for certain no artist or author or poet--or any kind of professional for that matter--has even given me a second glance.

Do authors roam the hallowed halls of today's primary schools?

Probably not.

They have better things to do.

Like, use pencils that haven't spent hours in the blazing hot sun, exposed to the elements, kicked about by rubber soles, forgotten by all mankind.

Destiny has lost its way to me, and freedom isn't all that it's cracked up to be.

The Life of a Pencil, part 3 (word count: 1,626)

Part 3

 

Oral History, entry 3, unless you count Florence's, then it's entry 4.

In the car, Florence freaked out.

 

"Notoo, Notoo! Where are we going?"

 

"I don't know the exact location, Florence dear," I said, trying to comfort my friend. "You must be calm."

 

"Calm! You want me to be calm??!!"

 

If I had known you were going to turn this Oral History into a farce, I wouldn't have let you finish the story!

 

Hehe, but it's so easy to tease you!

Notoo, I'm warning you.

You get so riled up!

Notoo!

Ok, ok. So basically we drove to our new home and were taken inside. They unloaded us in the kitchen, if the coffee pot is to be believed. I don't see why it had to be a kitchen. I've heard tell that coffee is a writer's survival, so it could easily have been a writer's room. But anyway, we were then manhandled into a backpack with a bunch of other office supplies before being carted off to some room or other, and here is where we've sat for the last couple days.

 

School supplies.

Office supplies.

We're in a backpack with school supplies.

 

That's what you keep saying, but I don't believe it. They are definitely office supplies.

 

The backpack has Disney characters plastered on the front. We're lying next to safety scissors and a box of crayons. And Elmer's glue. Elmer's glue, Notoo.

 

That doesn't mean anything. We could be heading for an artist's studio.

 

Who can't use adult scissors?

 

I don't know! I just know I can't be on my way to elementary school. My destiny is not to go to a children's primary school. It's just not.

 

You're in denial.

 

La, la, la! Yes, I am! You cannot persuade me! I will not become the tool of a sticky, stinky hand that only uses me to scribble on a desk when the teacher isn't looking.

 

You're becoming a pessimist. School is the best place for a pencil!

I refuse to be graffiti on the side of a desk!

School is so much more than that.

Nothing "fantastic" happens at school. Nothing grand and glorious and world-changing. Unless you count the amount of paper consumed on "practicing." Notice my air quotes? Yeah, that's because they don't know anything yet, so they have to keep practicing and practicing and practicing. And practicing.

You're only looking at the downside.

Look at that safety scissor over there. It has no sharp edge. It has no excitement. No snap and sizzle. It's bland and dull. That's what school life does to pencils like us. It takes all the fun out of living.

That's a horrible philosophy!

You've got to understand, I want to do something with my meager life, Florence. Not spend my days in a school room! Those who can, write or sketch; those who can't, go to school. That's what the mechanical pencil at the store taught me. I refuse to believe that I can't do anything more than be a school child's pencil. I--I--well, you couldn't understand.

I do understand. But you're wrong about school. You shouldn't have listened to those mechanical pencils--

You listened to Cliff Notes with all his snotty "I'm better than you. I can quote Shakespeare's soliloquy. To be or not to be, that is the question!" What does that mean, anyway? To be a pencil or not to be a pencil? I am a pencil, and I'm proud of it! Cliff Notes was a jerk, but I didn't tell you to stay away from him, did I?

No, but I knew he was a pompous know-it-all, so I learned what I could and didn't listen to the rest. The mechanical pencils probably had some good ideas, sure, but what they told you about school--that was horribly wrong! School is where children learn.

Florence, I've been spending all my moments learning and soaking in information and talking to staplers and hole punchers and, yes, to the mechanical pencils. You know why? Because I wanted to learn! I'm not against learning. I love learning! But I've learned everything now. I'm ready to do what I was made for. I'm ready to be used by an expert, not by some kid that still doesn't know his ABCs. I mean, seriously, can you imagine this beautiful specimen, this ribbon of graphite, fresh out of the factory mind you, being degraded to writing 1+1=2? I'm serious, Florence. I can't. I won't.
 

Notoo . . .

I mean it, Florence. I won't go to school. If they take me to a school, I'll--I'll--I'll escape!

But Notoo--

No! I don't want to talk about it any more.

Dear Oral History. Notoo refused to talk to me all yesterday and all night simply because he's scared of going to school. My first thought was, "Well, of all the proud things to do. He won't even listen to reason, and yet he called Cliff Notes snotty? He's becoming just like him!" But of course I couldn't tell Notoo that. No, because Notoo was giving me the silent treatment. I couldn't believe it! How could I explain to him what I had learned from the crayons and glue and yes, even the safety scissors? They told me stories passed on to them about a wonderful world. A world of color and creativity. A world where everything is fresh and new and little minds are stretching and growing. Notoo doesn't realize that a classroom is filled with more potential and possibilities than he can imagine. He wouldn't be part of one author or one artist's world. He'd be part of a whole classroom of future whatever-they-want-to-be-when-they-grow-up. I wish I could tell him. I wish I could share the truth with him. But he has shut me out. Why won't he listen? Why, Oral History? Why?

Notoo--

No, Florence, I won't talk about it.

But, Notoo, I--

Stop. Just stop. I don't want to talk right now.

Ok.

I miss my friend. He hasn't talked to me all night long. I know he is still mad at me. But what did I do? What terrible thing did I say that makes him refuse to talk to me? I don't know what to do. I wish I hadn't said anything. I wish I had let him think what he wanted to think. But it wasn't true! He can still have a good life even if we end up at a school. Why can't he understand that? The sun is coming up. I can feel the heat through the window. It's morning. What will happen if Notoo and I get sent to a school today? Will I lose my friend? I don't know. I'm scared.

Notoo, I think we're being moved.

I know.

Maybe you're right. Maybe we're going to an office.

No, we're going to a school.

I'm sorry, Notoo.

For what? It's not your fault that my life is over.

Oh, Notoo.

Part 3b

 



So much bouncing.

All my life has been sitting on a shelf or sitting in a backpack on the floor. Sitting still. No movement.

But this child who is wearing this blasted Disney backpack I'm in is bouncing around so much it's like the rolling cart episode all over again. I think I'm going to be sick.

Oh, it must be entering the classroom now. The teacher sounds far too perky. "Welcome! My name is Miss Rose. I'm so happy to be your teacher this year!" Bleh. Whatever. Agh! C'mon, set me down with a little finesse, not with a clump. When will this agony be over? More fluorescent lighting. At least that is familiar. So long, crayons. So long, Elmer's glue. So long, scissors. Ok, here comes my turn. Up, up, and away! Over the top of the backpack, and oh, sheesh, turn down the color, teacher. Yellows, reds, blues. Believe me, this explosion of color is not going to make my work any easier, and if this child is anything like how it walks, it's going to need all the help I can give it.

"It" is a girl. It's a she.

Whatever.

What's that? A pencil box? Aaaah! We're being dumped into it!

Florence!

I'm sinking, Notoo!

Hey you, get off me. Florence, are you okay?

I'm here! Next to the big, blue smelly marker.

Ouch! Ack! She's dumping crayons on top of me! Ow! Aaah!

I think I can see you, Notoo!

I can't see anything but colored wax and paper. Are you okay?

Yeah, I'm okay. Wishing I was still next to you despite all your grumpiness, but okay.

I had a reason to be grumpy. Look at us now. Shoved into a unorganized plastic junk box.

I've had just about enough of your griping and complaining, Notoo. It's bad enough that you called our new owner an "it." And how you perceive school is absolutely ridiculous. Yes, ridiculous! But how you treated me the last couple days is unacceptable. You can't treat your friends like that. Do you hear me? You cannot shut me out of your life. We're from the same pack. I know you're disappointed, but you have to figure out a way to bear it. All right? This is where we are, and complaining isn't going to help anything.

I'm sorry, Florence.

You should be.

No, I really am. I'd give anything to be able to just see you right now.

I know.

But, Florence?

What?

I think when we get out of this box, I think if I work hard enough, I can get up enough inertia to push my way out the door. It's not too far away, I don't think. And maybe if one of these kids accidentally kicks me--

Oh, Notoo!
 



The Life of a Pencil, part 2 (1,584 words)

Part 2

 

It turned out to be very providential that Florence joined my small realm of thought and conversation. I hadn't realized it, but I was about to snap.  Being alone with my own thoughts was driving me cray-cray, if you know what I mean. Now with Florence in my life, everything balanced out. I could think sanely again.

What are you doing?

I'm making an oral history of our friendship.

Notoo, you come up with the most creative things! What is an oral history?

It's like a story of what happened in the past, but since I don't have any paper, and we're kinda stuck here in this box, I'm saying it out loud. I'll practice telling our story until I find the best word choices, and then eventually I'll tell other pencils that will come after us. It will be passed down, generation to generation of pencils, Florence. Wouldn't it be awesome if the story of our lives lived on?

Um, I guess so? I don't know. Does it matter? I mean, we're just pencils. Nothing special.

Nothing special? Are you kidding me? Just pencils? Bah! There is no such thing as "just" being a pencil. Well, ok, sure, there are pencils that don't really do anything significant with their lives. Like golf pencils.

Golf pencils?
 

Yeah, those little short ones?

Oh, right.

All those pencils do is right down game scores. Charlie got 10 points. Sam got 2. Fred got 6.

Don't tell me you know how to play golf too!

No, I'm only giving examples. Examples of what you don't want to do with your life. 

Notoo?

Mmhm?

I think we might be--yes! Look! That worker is grabbing the boxes in front of us. Watch out!

AAaaaaahhhh!!

 

Oral History Take 2: And so it happened, that Florence and I found ourselves flying through the air.

"Notoo! Where are they taking us?" Florence screamed.

"I don't know, Florence, but don't worry." I replied calmly. "I'm right here. I will not leave you."

"A lot of help that is," she yelled rudely. "You couldn't leave me if you wanted to!"

"Now let's not quarrel, Florence dear," I soothed in a deep voice.

You did NOT call me "dear."

Hey, it's my oral history. It's the feeling of the drama that counts, not the particulars.

Please don't call me "dear." It sounds unnatural.

As I was saying, we were flying through the air, going who knows where when, plop! we were set down--rather harshly one would think for tender pencils as ourselves--on a new shelf. Except it wasn't a metal shelf. It was a sort of cardboard shelf. We found out later it was a brand new display set on the edge of the aisle.
 

And it read, "Back to School Supplies."

Florence! You're giving away the story!

Sorry. Not sorry. Well, kinda sorry. I'm sorry I interrupted your oral history and ruined your story. Will you forgive me?

Will you let me finish the story my way?

Yes. I won't even make a peep.

Ok then.

Would you have forgiven me anyway?

Yes.

Good. You can call me "dear" if you really want to, Notoo.

No, you're right, it sounds weird.

I agree. Go ahead with your oral history then.

As I was saying, we were put on a brand new sales display. There was only one thing on my mind now: getting into the hands of the next Rembrandt.

Or Shakespeare!

Right! So, I told Florence we better stand up straight and look our finest. After all, we were--

--fresh out of the factory.

Florence! I thought you said you wouldn't make a peep!

I'm sorry. I really am.

Anyway, we did. We really did. I knew we were making a good impression because the sales worker put us right in front. Right where the fluorescent lights hit us at the most desirable angle making us shine. We stood there at full attention and just glowed. And the whole time, I was thinking about my future. It's funny, but I didn't think of Florence's future.

That's mean!

Well, I didn't! But I think I kinda took it for granted that wherever I went, you would go too.

Oh, well, I guess that's not too mean then.

Anyway, I was standing there imagining. Standing straight and tall. And tall and straight. And that light was shining right off me. It got kinda hot. I know I felt like sweating. Did you feel like sweating, Florence?

Florence?

You said you didn't want me to say anything!

I do if I'm asking you a question!

Oh! I didn't know the rules. I've never heard someone give an oral history before, you know. I'm fresh out of the factory. No experience.

You're right. I'm sorry. Yes, if I ask you a question, you can answer.

Well, to answer your question then, ladies never sweat. They glisten. And I was glistening a whole lot. Like, I was glistening enough to make the cardboard box soggy.

Ew, ok, moving on. It was getting hotter and hotter, and then all of a sudden, it went dark. Pitch black. But, don't worry, future pencils, it wasn't anything scary. It was just the end of the night shift. We'd have to wait until tomorrow to be picked.

That's the end of my oral history for now.

You told it out of order.

No, I didn't.

Yes, you did. You said that we were moved to the display and then we stood straight because we wanted to be picked. But really, we were moved to the display, freaked out for about an hour, you gave a soliloquy about what you were going to do when you finally made it into the great, big world, then the lights went out for the night, and then we sweated all this morning.

Who's oral history is this? And how did you learn the word "soliloquy"?

Cliff Notes taught me.

Hmm, maybe I should have a talk with him myself. What does it mean?

It means you talked without me interrupting for a long time. I'm sorry I interrupt you so much, Notoo. You really do give beautiful soliloquies.

Ah, thanks.

Are you going to practice re-telling your oral history in order?

Do you think I need to?

Hey, Notoo?

I don't really see what it matters. We sweated either way, either last night or this morning.

Notoo!

It's not like the facts change--

Incoming 9 o'clock!

What? Is that more Cliff Notes lingo?

INCOMING 9 O'CLOCK! LOOK TO YOUR LEFT! TO YOUR LEFT!

I don't know what--hey! Those people are looking at us! Stand tall! Tall, Florence, tall!

I'm trying! I'm trying!

Shine, oh fluorescent light, shine! I knew this was our day of destiny!

Sweet, sweet people, take me to a good home!

Take me to the next C.S. Lewis!

Hold me and care for me and call me your own sweet pencil and never let me go!

Do great things with me! Write words that future generations will read over and over!

They're picking us up, Notoo!
 

They're putting us back down!

They're picking us up again!

This is it, Florence! This is the moment our dreams come true. Remember it, Florence! Remember it with your mind's eye. Capture this moment. The gleam of the lights. The warmth of the hands. The last feeling of being cramped with 11 other pencils in a box. The confinement. Remember the confinement. This is the last time we will feel it, Florence! In a little bit, we will be set free! Free to do what we were made to do! Free to make a mark on this world! Are you capturing it, Florence?

I'm trying! I'm trying!

Because when this season of our life is over, and we look back from happier days, you are going to be the one telling this part of our oral history.

Oh, Notoo! Are you serious?

Hold on, Florence! We're falling!

Dear Oral History...

You don't start off an oral history saying "dear" like you're writing a letter, Florence.

You do if you're me! Dear Oral History, as Notoo promised me that I could tell this part of the story, I will do so now. In order. And accurately.

Oh brother.

Notoo and I found ourselves in the bottom of a cart. We were rolled all across the store, and Notoo got quite motion sick.

Florence!

But that's ok, because I was right there with him the whole time, reminding him that soon we would be at our new home. Eventually we were put on the checkout counter, our box's barcode scanned, and we were tossed into a plastic bag with a bunch of other office supplies. There was a box of crayons, and another box of pencils, and a plastic bubble thingy of pencil-top erasers. Notoo was excited about those erasers. He said it would keep us in shape longer. I did not know what he meant, but when Notoo gets excited, I get excited too, because we are friends. Anyway, there was also a stapler in the bag, and staples, and paper clips, and sticky notes, and a dictionary and a thesaurus--

But no Cliff Notes.

No. There were no Cliff Notes. So I told you I would teach you everything I had learned so you could use words like "soliloquy" too.

Yup. Ok, it's my turn to finish the Oral History.

 

A pox upon me if I do not bequeath thee thy wish.

The Life of a Pencil, part 1 (word count: 1581)

Part 1a

Hello? Hellooooo! Anyone out there?

Humph. I guess not.

I wish they'd hurry up and unpack us.

Fresh out of the factory, that's what I am. Sleek cylindrical body. A rubbery pink head attached with a golden crown. A ribbon of graphite running through my middle. Yup, this is a thing of beauty right here. A brand new pencil.

I am destined for greatness.

I'm just chillin' here with my 11 bros. We're all in the same pack, y'see. In the same pack, stacked with a bunch of other packs in a cardboard box, biding our time until we are released into that great wonderful world.

I'm going to go places. Yup. I've got big dreams.

I heard tell of these people called authors. They use pencils to write long, long books. Could you imagine? I could write a book! And then when the authors die, the book lives on. People read it sometimes 100 years later. Sometimes the books become "classics" and people talk about them and give them as gifts and, get this, sometimes they even make movies out of the books the authors wrote!

And what did those authors use? That's right, a pencil!

That's what I want to do! I want to write a book that's made into a movie. Hollywood, here I come!

Oh, oh, and then there are these other people called poets. They write rhymes and whatnot about nature and feelings. Sometimes what they write are made into songs that people sing into microphones and that are then recorded. People ALL OVER THE WORLD listen to those songs.

I want to write a song! A thousand people bee-boppin' to a tune that I helped write--a pencil's dream.

That's what I want. I want to do something BIG! I want it so bad, you can't imagine.

Oh, and sometimes poets write mushy poems that are used in love letters and make people cry happy tears. To have that power to make someone cry happy tears! I want to do that too!

What are happy tears anyway? It must be something amazing because it doesn't make any sense.

I've got dreams, man, I've got dreams. I'm goin' places and doin' important things.

You might ask how I know about the world out there. I mean, after all, I am fresh out of the factory. It's not like I got any real life experience. Well, people talk. I guess some people write. And write. And write. And write. (Sorry, got a little dreamy there). But other people talk. And that's where an attentive pencil like me picks up on things. I wouldn't say I'm the sharpest pencil in my pack, but I have been able to gather quite a bit of intel about the potential a pencil like me has.

Oh, you know what else would be cool? I could be an artist's pencil and make sketches. I heard all about sketches. They sound magical. At first there is nothing, right? Just a white sheet of paper. And then, the artist moves a pencil across the page, and still, all you see is some graphite scribblings. But the artist keeps moving the pencil, and all of a sudden something real takes shape--an outline, a shadow--until it's obvious she's drawing a face.

I could literally fall into the hands of the next Tennyson, DaVinci, or Dickenson.

Someone bust me out of this cardboard box and put me on the shelves! I don't want to wait anymore!

Wait, you hear that? Someone is coming up to my box.

Hey! That's an Exacto knife cutting through the packing tape.

Light! I see light!

A hand is grabbing me and picking me up!

My future! It has come!

Happy tears! I know what they are now!

I am going to do great things. I know it!

You know why?

Because I'm a fresh new pencil.

Part 1b

I'm depressed.

So apparently if you are the first out of the box, you're the first on the shelf. Sounds good, right? Except that means a million other boxes go in front of you. Yes, a million. I've studied up on authors and something called "figurative language" while I've sat here for the last hundred thousand years waiting to be bought. When I say a "million" other boxes are in front of me or that I've been sitting here for a "hundred thousand years," I'm using "hyperbole." Authors use hyperbole. I'm just studying up so I can be the best pencil I can be.

 

Anyway, since I'm in the back (far in the back where the dust accumulates like eraser shavings on an author's desk--that's called a "simile." More figurative language!), when the next Dr. Seuss or John Milton comes to load up on pencils, everyone else gets picked first and I get left behind.

 

Behind, behind

Alone and behind

Ignored and alone

Alone and behind.

 

Never chosen

Never seen

I just wish someone

Would pick on me.

 

*Sigh*

 

But I know I'm young and fine. Fresh out of the factory, that's me. That is, I was fresh until someone put me here to SIT USELESS.

 

My barrel is clean and glossy. My rubber head is perfectly formed and unused. There's nothing wrong with me.

 

There's nothing wrong with me, right?

 

Is there?

 

Maybe my barrel edges are too soft. Are they supposed to be pointy? No, surely not. Then I'd hurt people when they hold me.

 

Maybe I'm shaped weird. Pencil barrels are supposed to be hexagons. Oh no! Was I made with not enough sides? I'll count them. 1, 2, 3--yeah, I have six sides. Good, I'm normal.

 

I'm normal. I'm normal! Right?

 

Someone, please tell me I'm normal.

 

I wouldn't believe them even if they told me. They would just be trying to make me feel better. They wouldn't know what it's like to be invisible.

 

Why was I even brought here just to collect dust?

 

What is the point of me?

 

Ha. Haha. Point. Get it? Point? I'm a pencil with a point? Haha.

Hahaha! I just got it! Haha!

Whoah! Who's that?

It's me.

No, it's definitely not me.

Hehe, oh you're so funny. It's me. Right next to you. Your pencil pack buddy.

Oh! Oh, that's weird. That's really really weird.

What's weird?

A pencil talking.

But you've been talking for the last 10 days.

You mean you've heard all that junk I've been rambling on about?

Of course. You didn't think no one was listening, did you?

Well, you know what they say about a tree falling in a forest if no one is around.

I have no idea what you're talking about.

Hm.

So hey, what's your name?

My name?

Yeah, my name's Florence. I mean, it's not like anyone named me Florence because of course I'm just a pencil, and pencil's don't have names. At least not when they're right out of the factory. Did you know you say "fresh out of the factory" quite a bit? You do. Not that I mind, because it's true. But anyway, what is your name? Have you named yourself yet?

Brain. does. not. compute.

What's the matter, Notoo?

How on earth are we even having this conversation?

Oh silly, Notoo, if you can talk, surely I can!

Why are you calling me "Notoo"?

Oh that! Well, you have "No. 2" on the side of your barrel. I just thought it would be fun to call you "Notoo." Dear me, you don't mind, do you?

I-- I--

Please say you're not offended? I didn't mean anything by it. I just wanted you to have a name like me.

I have a name!

Hehe, yes you do.

I have a name! I didn't even know I needed a name! But I did! I do! I have a name!

Notoo!

That's me! Florence, you named me!

I did. Do you like it?

It's magnanimous!

I think you mean magnificent, Notoo.

You are so magnanimous to give me a name. My very own name. I won't forget you, Florence. Not til my last scribble.

Why, I hope not. After all, we're in the same pack. We'll probably end up in the same place together.

You named me! I was nothing. A nameless pencil amid a sea of pencils--not a literal sea--that's author talk again--I was a nameless pencil amid a sea of pencils, on the back of a shelf, among numberless shelves in a huge office supply store. And you looked at me--

Well, I heard you.

You saw me--

Without actual eyes, of course.

--and you named me! I was nothing. Nada. Zilch. Just one in a mass of wooden tubes.

I think you're reading into this a little more than I meant it.

No, you gave me meaning in a meaningless world! Purpose in a purposeless world!

A point in a pointless world!

Yes! Yes! YES!

I really think you've been on the back of this shelf too long.

You're missing the point!

Is that a pun again?

I am not alone. I've got a name, and I'm not alone! We're going to do amazing things together, you and me, Florence. We're going to take this world by storm. We're going to write things. Amazing things. We're going to make people cry. Happy tears, Florence, happy tears! Stick with me, kid, and we'll go places!

Um, Notoo?

Yeah?

We're still sitting on a shelf.

I know.

Ok, just so long as you know.