Being a regular, dull pencil isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, but at least it’s better than being broken. Sometimes I dream of the horrors that would come from being a regular, dull, broken pencil, thus being separated from my one true love, Jeff, and forgotten about instantaneously. Those dreams are like chainsaws on my yellow skin. To be separated from Jeff, the writer, the artist, would be the death of me. I would just be a broken piece of wood waiting to be used for somebody’s campfire. The thing is, would Jeff be the one using me for his campfire?
Spending time with Jeff at school left me busy enough that those dreams almost became distant thoughts. A regular math class means constant erasing for me, especially word problems. Jeff was never good at manipulating numbers, so he would stall for several minutes before even using me in class. Usually, a regular math class meant a date with a thin, flat surface that was often hungry for numbers and conclusions. This always left me as cold as the table I was often laid on. As I said, Jeff was never good at math, but English was an incredibly different experience for the both of us. The adrenaline rush that went on inside of me when Jeff began to write about Shakespeare was addictive. My lead bled onto the thin, flat surface as each new word that Jeff wrote brought meaning to my dull existence. Jeff never took any breaks when writing a short journal entry, and my rush of adrenaline never slowed down. Every word and phrase felt like needles that had Jeff’s blood in them, so addictive. His writing made the wood inside of me and his soul almost compatible with each other. English class was always an extraordinary experience for the both of us because Jeff’s writing made us indestructible, never to be broken by anyone or anything.
The cold, hard concrete floor left what almost seemed like a billion broken pieces of me scattered everywhere. Jeff’s tears started to leak out like water leaking out of a garden hose. I could feel his tears pounding at the fragile pieces of my broken wooden body. I could see bruises that were overtaking his entire arm like bad grammar overtaking an excellent paper. The bully continued to pound away at Jeff’s flesh as if he was torturing him because he was such a magnificent writer. The black backpack obscured my vision a little but I knew exactly what was happening. Jeff’s bones were being shattered into a billion pieces as I lay on the cold surface, helpless. I was forced to watch the writer, the artist being turned into a broken pencil. Guess we weren’t so indestructible after all.
Sunlight woke me up from my ravenous dream. Counting each second as I lay there thinking about the authenticity of the dream, I began to notice the enormous void that was left in Jeff’s room. The writer disappeared from his room and so did his backpack. What made it even worse was realizing that the backpack pouch that felt like a motor home to me did not have me in it. Jeff had abandoned me in the contours of his messy room. While I lay there, still counting each second as if I was losing air, I began to realize that the adrenaline rush that I was anticipating was getting farther and farther away from me in a yellow school bus.
Still counting each second, I was able to concentrate a little on the unfortunate fact that I was still a regular, dull pencil. A pencil that was rolling towards Jeff’s old art images almost instinctively. I felt that I could multi-task because I was still counting each second in my lead but always I was contemplating the idea of whether I should erase the sketch of a noble bald eagle that was staring at me. Before I knew it, the adrenaline rush that I was anticipating all morning started to fill me up again, so addictive. The magnificent bald eagle that Jeff and I had created lost his head.
Soon I confronted his “What I did on my summer vacation” journal and that suddenly disappeared. Every word or phrase that reminded me of Jeff was all erased in the seconds that I was still counting. I drew pictures of Jeff as the devil all over his science homework. The rush of adrenaline never felt more natural as it did when I wrote on his math paper that 2+2=8.
I was getting so overwhelmed by my newfound freedom, my newfound vengeance that the rush of adrenaline began to slow down. I was soon left lying perfectly still on the colorless, dark surface of Jeff’s writing table. No longer overtaken by a raging rush of adrenaline, I began to once again dream about being a broken pencil.
I awoke feeling as light as a floating feather in the night sky. The blinding light above, however, gave me the feeling that night was farther away than I expected it to be. As my feeling of euphoria began to wear off, the agonizing truth began to rear its ugly head. I am blue, not as blue as the enormous day-time sky but lighter. I am a light blue poem, invisible by the naked eye but always telling a story. Never to be seen by anyone and yet only held by one person. And whether the story of the poem involves having a dark green background or even being held in front of the classroom for more than 5 minutes, at least it is a story. Yep, being a regular, dull pencil isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, but being a plain piece of chalk is definitely worth being broken by the bully of the classroom, Jeff.