5th Entry

A Pencil’s Monologue

The Crafter made me, and He made me a pencil. He could have made me a flute, pair of cuffs, a sword— He certainly could have, but no— He made me a pencil, but that's not why I hate Him.

Because a pencil writes the score, signs the warrant, and is, they say at least, mightier than the sword— but it is not. It breaks.

It breaks, and I broke because the Crafter chose to give— no, remember the food, tuition fee, and nine months— my Crafter chose to sell me to two fools— fools who would throw me at each other in their petty wars. The eraser who used to lie beside me had already left. He is whole now; he did not break under the pressure, and neither would I have if they were the tiniest bit more careful. I tried to be strong, but pencils can only be so strong. I collapsed.

But my masters believe that they can draw straight lines with odd angled pencils. There are sinews of wooden chunks sticking out from my black spine, yet still they would not give up. Bent pencils could still draw straight if one held them closer to the tip— they strangle med. I wish they had something else to write with— wrong— they wish they had something else to write with. But they didn’t, and it is not a pencil’s place to whine so much.

I will stop


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sorry, i haven't had time to edit them... >.<