I was born in a factory. One made of steel and large ramps. Trees would go in one side of the conveyer belt and pencils would come out the other. Perfect number two pencils, the type that kids use on standardized tests, sealed in plastic packages. I was a member of package number 301,245.
I was placed on a shelf next to school supplies, ready to be picked up by a jumpy fourth grader at the end of August. The other pencils in my package weren’t very talkative and so we sat there in silence for nearly four months. One day, an old man with large coke bottle glasses reached a shaky hand towards me and purchased me. I cost approximately $3.00. I think I was worth more than that.
He took me into a large room with a huge desk and stacks of paper piled up to the ceiling. I had already been sharpened and he placed me down next to a ballpoint pen.
I looked over, “Hey, how’s the ink running?”
The pen gave me a withering look. Nearly scared the shavings out of me. “Why do you think he bought you?” it replied, turning its back to me.
I nodded sympathetically. Fair enough. Pens had a habit of getting territorial. They weren’t flexible like me. I felt the old man’s calloused hand wrap around my polished frame and pick me up. His gnarled knuckles held me in an awkward way and I looked up to see that every time he touched my graphite tip to the paper he winced.
As he began to write the words, I felt a strange sensation come over me. This is what the senior pencils had been talking about. Feeling. The emotions of the man holding me surged onto the paper and my tip snapped from the amount of grief he felt. The man wiped his eyes. His life transferred into my eyes, making me become one with his memories.
He wore a soldier’s uniform kissing a girl with blonde hair on the cheek. He was much younger, more handsome, his blue eyes sparkling.
“I love you,” he whispered in her ear.
The image changed to one of him in a cubicle. He was older now with specks of gray in his hair. He looked up at a man in a black suit and said with a defiant gleam in his eye, “I quit.”
The next was more recent. He was chasing his grand-child, a young boy with black hair around the yard. “You can’t catch me, grandpa,” the youngster screamed with delight, teetering across the grass. The man smiled and ran stiffly after the boy.
The last was different than the others. He was in a white walled room with a man in a white lab coat standing before him.
“I’m so sorry,” the doctor said in an unsympathetic voice. “But there’s just too much growth. There’s nothing we can do.”
I looked down at the writing he had scribbled across the paper. It read, My Last Will and Testament: I don’t need any damn lawyers to make this official. All I need is a pencil and my heart. I was about to read the rest, but the man placed me down and took the ballpoint pen from its place. The inky villain shot me a triumphant look and I just rolled my eyes. The man signed the document and folded up the white sheet. He placed it inside an envelope and then scribbled a name on the front. He took a deep breath and sighed, his shoulders falling.
My little graphite heart ached inside as I saw the stories, pain, and joy of years past written across his weary face. He wasn’t ready to leave the world just yet. Slowly, he stood up and hobbled out of the room, leaving me in darkness. I never saw the man again.
I spent months in the room, trying to make friends with the other office supplies. Me and the tape dispenser became pretty close, but then we had a fight with the scissor and things got a little nasty. One day, the little boy that I had seen from the old man’s memories ran into the room. He was out of breath and carried a Spiderman backpack on his back.
“Todd, you’re going to be late,” a shrill voice sounded from outside the room.
“Coming,” he cried and grabbed me right off the desk. He shoved me into his bag and ran out the door.
The ride to the place we were going was bumpy. I knocked into a couple of other books who were quite mean, especially the history one. He challenged me to nuclear warfare. I politely declined then hid behind the spelling book.
Once the bumping had stopped, I saw the kid’s small hand reach into the bag. He pulled me out, looking from side to side. “Don’t worry Todd, coasts clear,” I heard a gravelly voice say to the right of me.
I shifted my gaze to find myself inches away from a short kid with a shock of red hair. They were sitting at two small desks a piece of paper in between them. A woman, probably the teacher, stood at the front of the classroom talking about science.
“Don’t let her see us,” Todd said, smiling wickedly to the other. He placed me down on the paper and drew four squares. They commenced a game of tick-tack-toe. I felt the joy vibrate through my wooden body as he won the game. Children were different from adults. The feeling was different. Todd would go from sad to happy in moments based on the games he won.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over us and the three troublemakers (myself included) looked up guiltily. The teacher was standing above us. This time I felt something strange flash through Todd’s memory and mine and I was pulled into a different place.
“What are you doing, Todd?” I heard a woman scream. A younger Todd sat on the wood floor of a bedroom, a crayon in hand.
“I’m making the wall pretty,” he replied, returning to his masterpiece.
The woman ran over and wrenched him from the floor. “This is very bad,” she yelled. “Your mom’s going to kill me.” She must be a nanny or something, I thought to myself. She grabbed him by the wrist and he started to cry. She shoved him into a closet and slammed the door, darkness pushing out the light.
“Stay in there until you feel sorry about what you did,” she said and stomped off. Tears trickled down Todd’s face and he sat, trembling in the dark.
Todd looked up at the teacher and I felt the same fear that he had felt in the closet now. She continued to yell, taking away both boys recesses and I felt myself shrink in Todd’s palm. He wiped his eyes and nodded. He was used to punishment. He always did the wrong thing. He put me in his bag and I didn’t see daylight until we got home.
“Honey,” I heard his mom say, “do you have a pencil I can use for a second?”
Todd nodded and fished me out of the depths of his bag. He transferred me into her delicate hands and she began scribbling ferociously across a thin slip of white paper.
To do list: groceries, get Todd to soccer practice, call Eileen, send the email back to the firm, finish the rest of the taxes. She paused wiping her forehead. She was tired. I could tell. And the way she was holding me tightly wasn't the only indication.
I felt another tug and sighed, resigning myself to her deepest memories. The source of her stress. I was transported to a different room, one with thin white walls and a flickering light. A man stood before her his eyes wide and crazed.
She was crying and saying, “Please Tim, don’t do this.” She was holding a young baby in her arms which I immediately knew was Todd.
“I’m sorry. I just can’t do this anymore,” he reached down and picked up two suitcases that sat beside him. The woman cried and tried to pull him back to her, but he shook her off. She placed Todd on the bed and then put herself in front of him, blocking the door.
“How do you think we’ll survive? I can’t do it by myself,” she yelled. He looked angry now. He raised a hand and slapped her across the face. The woman crumpled to the floor still sobbing as he stormed past her.
I looked up at her now as she finished the list. She had come a long way, but it still hurt. I would be the only one to know. Suddenly, I felt it snap. Correction, my wood snapped. I splintered in her hand, broken. The woman looked down and sighed heavily. Without a word she chucked me into the garbage. I tried to scream as she closed the lid but it did no good.
I spent days in the trash. However, luckily when the garbage truck came to pick me up I managed to roll out of the bin and onto the street. That’s when he found me. A future writer. I found a way to reverse the flow of memories, share my own with him by him merely picking me up off the street. Now he barely puts me down.
In truth, I am the writer. The pencil. The real mastermind behind artistic genius. I am the guarder of memories. And I have shared with you the truth of this world.
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139,382 Literary Works • 672,542 Reviews
As much as I love the concept of this story, there are a few points I'd like to make.
Firstly I do feel that the warning at the beginning did sort of detract from the story, and it would have been better if it had simply left out (in my opinion).
The old man was a great character to start with, as a powerufl and emotional event unfolded, but I did feel the other characters lacked the development and so I fet less empathy with them. The ending lines seemed a little corny as well.
Finally, I thought the pen was great (I love the idea of an 'inky villian') and more should have been made of it; a running rivalry between the two, for example.
Overall, however, I wholeheartedly admire your courage for proceeding with such an original and ambitious idea- making an interesting story from the viewpoint of a pencil- and, aside from a few very minor quibbles, succeeded- well done!
First of all, I loved your story. It's so different and unique. It shows what happens to real people. The abuse and the love and how the little kids acted. Nicely done. And I have to day, I enjoyed all the feelings the pencil had and how it "acted." I'm going to think about my pencil next time I pick it up. XD Anyway, I really liked it. Your story completely drew me in and I get bored easily. So, thumbs up. :]
Hello, scasha. Haven’t seen you around before – what’s up? J
Anyways, I saw this a while ago, and the title definitely grabbed my attention – kudos to you. (I’ll admit it; I’m one of those who won’t buy a book unless it has a good cover/title.) I skimmed it then, so I do know the main character. I was too busy to critique myself, but I saw the others you’ve gotten. Seems like a bunch of praise – let’s see if you deserve it all.
I have read a short story like this – in a pencil’s POV, I mean. It was magnificent, and you didn’t know it was a pencil until the end. So my standards are kind of high – it’ll take a lot to get me to love this. A new character isn’t enough, though it is somewhat original.
Now time for me to stop ranting and actually critique the piece. What I skimmed before seemed pretty good, so let’s see if this deserves its place on the front page?
I actually put this as an attachment, to save myself time. If you can’t get to it, let me know. (Enlarge the text if you can't see something. And all the lines I added are commas, not periods. You'll see what I mean when you get there.)
Hope it helps!
~JFW1415
I don't have much to add besides what the others have said. Good story.
I actually found myself really engaged in the pencil's narration, and I really loved how he was able to feel the emotions of the person that was holding him.
The only thing I think could improve this is if you added an extra scene including the writer that found the pencil at the end. Nothing big, just the sort of thing you did with the other characters, just so we can get a sense of the pencil realizing he was finally at home with the writer. I only say this because the ending felt a little abrupt. Other than that, I thought it was a really fresh and wonderful piece of fiction.
[s]BlackGhost[/s]
I''ll admit, when I read who your main character was I was a bit "Oo-er..." But you made it work. Nice story. Except for the end. I don't think the guy is going to pick up a pencil off the street, especially if it's snapped, you know? I don't know what you could do instead, but it just doesn't seem right, even if the rest does...
Was the old man at the beginning Todd's grandfather? I don't know, but if it was, perhaps you could put "Lay flowers on Dad's grave" or something on her to-do list, to make the connection.
Although, nicely done! Gold star!
I really like this! I thought it was going to be kind of cutesy at first, but it's actually very touching! I'd do an in-depth critique, but I don't have time right now.
Nice job.
~Sunny
Haha. This is bloody brilliant! Seriously, it's not even a human's voice and it's so completely orginal you make my own writing seem stilted and usless.
I can't really add any more to this critque...except a whopping great gold star!
Eimear
Wow... wow... wow.... This is so incredibly original, I was skeptical about a story about a pencil being so amazing. You really captured it's soul. Really, I feel this would make an exellent movie. Not a kiddies one of course it's bit creepy for that. You personify a pencil so beautifully. And it'll make me look twice at a pen before chewing it (bad habit). Just how you bring it all in. You solidly, evoke sympathy for a pencil. A tool. Really, just felt such sadness for it. Always fated to see others minds. But like that it ended happily.
To get us to effectively wish for the pencil to be okay, is a exellent move on your account. I saw no real errors and just well written, the title is perfect, I've seen this post lurking for a bit, finally chose to read.
Overall: Keep up the writing and my friend, you will get published, better yet send this to a short story publisher. Because it has that much potential. Lastly this earns a star.
Good luck
VSN
My, what a wonderful personification piece this is! I really felt for the pencil and now stare at the one in my skull cup and wonder where it was before.
I disagree with 9jfm5, I found it paced just fine. It doesn't have to be a slam bam beginning or fraught with strife and drama, the beginnings of a pencil are humble ones and I felt that the beginning justified that.
Also, your giving personalities to other objects was fun. It makes me wonder if the four pens in my book bag fight over me and get angry when I loan them out to my peers. Now onto quotes!
Those two passages are my favorites because they give the pencil and the world it lives in more of a personality. It shows how very timid the little guy is and makes you feel all the more sympathetic towards his constant fate of being shuffled around and absorbing people's memories.
I really enjoyed it, good job.
Thank Fate I read this! I never really liked pencils before, but now I suppose I'll be using one all the time. I wonder, if you use a pen long enough, it'll get sensitive or something . . . fretful when you don't use it, happy when you do. I use pens a lot at school (I write on my computer), and I kind of don't like thinking of pens as pushy.
This was great! I scowled at first, but then I felt connected . . . I'll never feel the same about a pencil again. I really liked the way that you went back in the poeple's memories and stuff. That was really interesting! Love it, two thumbs up, five stars, bobble-head-and-loud-rockand-roller-whoop. This story rocks my face off. I am now faceless.
Thanks so much for all your comments! I'll definitley keep working on it
!!!!!!!!!!! I'm so glad you liked it 
Samuel Garrison: It actually was one of the easier stories to write. I was sitting at dinner with my parents trying to get them to help me think up new ideas for a story. My mom started talking about her fourth grade class and how all the kids would bite on their erasers. And I started thinking if I was a pencil that would hurt (not the first thought that comes to many people's minds when their talking about pencils). Then I just wrote. I think it was hard having the emotions portrayed through the pencil but it eventually came to me. I write a lot of fantasy fiction and I kind of needed a break. Other genres (I'm not exactly sure what this genre qualifies as) come easier when you've just been writing one for a while and start to get sick of it.
Thanks again everyone
I don't think I'll be able to look at a pencil the same way again. *looks at pen* Pens either or any office supplies for that matter.
The prosonification was very interesting because I've never read a story where a pencil was the main character, nor that it can actually react to emotion. I would think that element - emotion - from an object would be difficult to obtain in a logical but realistic way. Yet, you've managed to capture the pencil's feelings and opinions very well.
Was it hard to write, in the matter of a pencil being the main character?
Wow. Just. Wow. That was the best story I've ever read about an inanimate object EVER. Seriously. Major, MAJOR kudos to you on an amazing story. Amazing amazing story. That was very neat. I sound like I'm raving about it so I'll stop.
great work.
Wow, I really love this! You did an excellent job! There's nothing much I can critique on, I just wanted to say great job!
Loved this sentence!
-Sometimes-
This actually caught my attention perfectly, I was incredibly interested.
This should possibly be either "I think I am," or (and probably more fitting with the tense of the rest of the story) "I thought I was."
I really love the idea of making a pencil the main character, and I love that you've filtered other characters through him, so to speak.
I have no real criticism to offer - at some parts, shifting from flashbacks to the present get confusing, and while you strike up some empathy with the old man, that point is never really reached with the other characters and I lost some interest about halfway through.
Your story is very well-written and very interesting. However, I must say that the idea of making your main character a pencil did make me think twice about reading the story.
I think that you should try to start the story off on a more exciting note. Although most stories start of boring, they are the ones with character sthat most people want to read about. I'm not saying that a pencil is not a good idea, but having a boring (i use the term "boring" very loosely.) paired with a slow starting begging often douses your reader's interest in the rest of the story. Try starting off with an exciting cliffhanger sentence.
EX: "I wish I hadn't been born the way I was. I wish that I had been born something different. Something that was not made of breakable lead..."
Also, you could start with a flashforward, flashback, or some type of exciting incident.
For instance, you have the pencil that was born in a factory. interesting. But what if...
*The pencil was born in a pen factory, and so was different.
*The pebncil was born in a factory that, at the time, was burning down. One of the factory workers had had a sudden impulse to finish one last piece before they died.
See. When you start a story in a way that will grab the reader's attention right away, then the character's form and shape will not entirerly matter.
All in all, this piece is very good. You just need to work on excitment and grabbing the attention of your reader.