The Pencil
There it sat, for many years. Neither moving, or stirring while the world moved. Over time, a fine layer of dust covered the tops, leaving a dustless imprint on the desk beneath. The pencil itself, however, was well, ordinary. It was one of those cheap $2 shop pencils. The classic pencil a teacher would give a student if they forgot their pencil case. The pencil that always broke and always needed sharpening. The regular thin layer of dull paint covered the exterior of the cheap wood with the flesh-coloured rubber on the end. As if in matrimony, the large metallic ring, bound both wood and rubber together, forever solidifying them together.
But this pencil had been clearly used. But it could have been used by anyone, from the humble salary man or the greatest mind in our century had graced its presence. The rubber on the end had been completely used. The writer had even tried to use more of it, with the sides of the golden metal band curving inwards at random intervals. Almost as if he was writing something both mind-boggling and extraordinary and being so distracted in his thoughts had forgotten the lack of a rubber on the end. The teeth marks on the metallic band showed the pauses and stops in thoughts, anxious, yet struggling to continue what was written. The pencil itself now was around half the original length, almost halfway through its life, not quite as new, but still ready to take up any task its master so desires.
For this pencil, its life had concluded. Left on a dusty desk with no possible future, but still a story to tell. Maybe, after all, this wasn't just an ordinary pencil.
I wrote a story. I'm bored.
![[Image: wksDXoi.gif]](https://i.imgur.com/wksDXoi.gif)
