Story Of The Pencil Novels & Stories

"Just focus." I closed my eyes and tried to think of something happy. I thought of the art gallery. I pictured the light hitting the paintings. I remembered the feeling of Damien’s hand resting steadily on the small of my back, and the low, quiet rumble of his voice asking me what I saw in the art. Snap. The pencil broke in my fingers. AGAIN I stared down at the two pieces of wood in my hand, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. “I can’t,” I whispered. “I just can't do this.”

“It was multiplication of some big numbers and the teacher gave me a fancy pencil for getting the answer right. Do you want to see it?” Before I even responded, surely in the affirmative, he removed him bag from his back and dug into it to pull out the green, indeed, fancy pencil. “I don't like the colour green but I like this one.” He said. I tried not to allow my eyes water at the fact that at such a young age, he had already developed a sense of responsibility to keep the gifts he got, whether he liked them or not. It was always a reminder of one great deed you did at one time in life, and at points where one might be feeling low, if he/she ever came across that gift, they'll be reminded

I don’t have a clue what type of pencil she use with her drawings. Blue pencils, yellow pencils, green pencils and oh there’s mechanical pencils too. I stared at these pencils for five seconds and picked an orange Faber Castle mechanical pencil. It says from the packaging grip matic and 0.5, I don’t even know the purpose of the number 0.5, but I took it anyway.

ALICE I flipped through the pages. The pencil in my hand snapped as my grip on it tighten. I did not bother getting myself another one. I can still draw using what's left of this five inch pencil. This flimsy little thing... is already enough. Just like his lingering image in my brain...is enough to draw his sketch.

I gave him a dirty look because he was right. "I was in the basement," I said, defeated. Logan took a step toward me. “Why is this pencil so important to you?” His mesmerizing grey eyes met mine, taking my breath away. I gulped, trying to think of what to say. “No lies.” "My little sister gave it to me," I finally said. "Now give it to me." Where is your little sister now? I felt tears in my eyes. I looked away. I answered both of your questions; now give me my pencil, I declared, holding back tears.

Then the missing pencil was later found inside the boy’s own bag. The entire story took almost fifteen minutes but Camila and I listened anyway. Mostly because Alessia told stories like they were international crime investigations. “And then,” she said dramatically, “the teacher found the evidence.” I nearly choked on my water. “The evidence?” “The pencil,” she said, looking at me like I hadn't been following the story. “Right.” “The criminal got away though.” Camila sighed. “Justice failed.” “Completely.” By the time dinner ended, I felt lighter than I had all week.

I picked up my sketchbook and the lower half of my broken pencil, then returned to my unfinished drawing. Somehow, he took the cold shoulder treatment as a yes and began explaining himself.

You can sit down. We sit. It was literature class, I take my notebook out of the backpack and the pencils, but a pencil falls to the ground, near Elder's place. I bend down and reach out my hand to pick it up, but Elder beats me to it and he does it. I get back to my place, reaching out my hand for him to give it to me, however, he doesn't. He stays with him. "Give it to me," I say in a whisper so the teacher won't hear me.

he said. Inside were pages full of pencil sketches and short, clumsy sentences—none of them professionally done, all of them exactly him. There was a crooked family on the first page with two parents and a rescue dog named Bix. The second page had a sketch that looked suspiciously like our penthouse couch, with the caption: Where Tuesdays live. The book was a hand-made children’s story: The Little House That Held Tuesdays. Each page held a tiny adventure—the first puddle jump, the first burned pancake, the time a kite escaped and came back with a ribbon.

But all she could draw were keys. The one he used to keep her out. The one he never gave her. The one she tried to find. Her pencil snapped from the pressure. She dropped it and buried her face in her hands. What were they doing? Whatever it was, it was starting to hurt in all the wrong ways.