A Monologue from a Melodramatic Pencil
Oh, woe is me, for I have been forgotten by my keeper, infinitely lost in these terribly bland linoleum squares (is this even a color? Beige? No, I’d never insult beige like this), no home, no purpose. The air is just so cold! Perhaps my body has begun to freeze in time, as I no longer have a reason to be on this sad spinning rock we do so happen to call Earth (oh, there’s an air conditioner). My keeper has left me for dead, didn’t even spare a final goodbye. No hurrahs, I suppose, for a sad, lanky old piece of wood like myself. If only someone were to pass by, and notice me, buried in these dangerous shadows, before my hexagonal build is taken aloft by the air kicked up by a battalion of hundreds of shoes, sending me tumbling down the stairs. What’s this? A child! A child has brought me into the warmth of the light shining from the window, picking me up with delicate hands (they must know how fragile my spirit is right now). The radiance of the sunbeam fills each fiber of my being once again, rekindling of vigor within. As I am risen into the comfort of my new keeper’s backpack, I feel at home, a comforting place I know I can count on, with mesh and zippered protectors that would never drop me in a treacherous hallway during the rush of class changes. I am once again revived, no longer forced to relive each agony I’ve faced in my pitiful life (the horrible traumas I’ve endured from anxious test takers, who chewed off my previously luscious layers of chrome pigment). I befriend my fellow comrades, hidden with me in the safety of this defensive citadel: Pens, Mechanicals (though we, the Dixon Ticonderoga #2, were the original – the revered, all cedar, 45,000 word-per-use writing pencils since 1913, unlike these click-click bandwagons!), even Erasers (those judgmental pricks). We all feel a collective THUD! of the backpack we’ve been cruising in, and light is let into our citadel, our fabulous fortress. These gentle hands once again have allowed me to soar and rest on the cooling, beautiful silver color of the wooden desk, and my new adventure begins. Okay Students, you may begin your tests… now! My new guardian seems rather distressed about their teacher’s wondrous announcement. Wait (I’ve been lifted far higher than the paper, the familiar smell of cafeteria food accosts me)… No please, OH GOD, NOT MY DAZZLING PIGMENT! NOT AGAIN!
Olivia Chu
40
