Story Of The Pencil Novels & Stories

Maybe she could go to the library after class and check out a book about Montana's history. Before she gave up, she decided to scan the floor one more time. Seriously, it had to be here somewhere! She knew she’d brought it in with her. “What are you doing?” Jack’s annoyed voice hit her ears. Everly looked up, meeting his eyes. They were so green, they practically glowed in the dark. Her mouth didn’t want to cooperate this close to him, but she managed to squeeze out a one-word answer, “Pencil.” He huffed, shaking his head in disbelief, but then, she found the requested utensil thrust in her direction.

I watched as his brows creased. “What's that?” He asked, pointing at the book. I pretended not to know, “it's probably nothing,” I tried to brush it off but he was having none of it. I watched as he headed to the end of the bench, and retrieved the book. The color pencil fell out, and instead of him just letting it be, he picked it out. “A yellow pencil?” He asked, twisting it within his eyes. He didn't seem to think there was anything suspicious about it.

Something that didn’t feel like anything. Then the shape changed. The curve of a shoulder. The line of a jaw. I didn’t even notice I was doing it until I’d already dragged the pencil down in that slow, deliberate slope. Not a tree anymore. Not even close. I swore under my breath and flipped the page. Tried again. Eyes this time. Just eyes. Dark. Tired. Watching me from the quarry ledge like they knew something I didn’t want said out loud. I snapped the pencil in half.

she said. "Yes," Elena said. "That's dangerous and also wrong." "I know. It's faster though." Gillian Marsh looked at her hands. "What else do you do wrong," she said. Not critically. Curiously. "I hold my pencil wrong," Elena said. "Everyone says so. It works though." "Show me." Elena held the pencil. Gillian looked at it. "Yes," she said. "That's wrong. Does it work." "Yes." "Then don't change it," she said, and moved on.

His pencil moved smoothly across the paper. Occasionally, he glanced up, studying us before returning to his work. The crowd around us slowly grew. Tourists stopped to watch. Children ran past, carrying glowing toys. Music drifted through the carnival. The sea sparkled behind us beneath the evening sky. At one point, Mikhail looked up from his sketch and laughed softly.

Words. “Pencil,” I whispered, the word slipping from my lips like a secret. My eyes flew open. My chest tightened with exhilaration. I scribbled the answer down with shaking hands. The parchment glowed faintly, the ink shimmering as though the scroll itself acknowledged the truth. Relief washed through me so strongly I nearly laughed. Selene purred. Well done, little one. I turned slightly, watching the others.

The room seemed to amplify every sound, each noise another needle poking at her concentration. Halfway through the test, her pencil snapped with a sharp crack. Nicola froze, staring at the broken tip as though it had betrayed her. She fumbled for her backup pencil, only to realize it wasn’t in her bag. Panic flared in her chest as she glanced around, unsure of what to do. The teacher noticed her dilemma and walked over, placing a fresh pencil on her desk with a kind smile. “Don’t let it rattle you,” she whispered. Nicola nodded, mouthing a quick thank-you before diving back into the exam.

I searched the Luna’s desk for a replacement, but her pencil cup was empty. I scanned the rest of the desk. No more. I opened a slim try in front of me; nothing but extra staples, a hole punch, and white-out. I tried the slim tray drawer next to it. Bingo. An entire hoard of pencils. Weird. But ok. My hand slid clumsily along the pencils, neatly stacked and not sliding everywhere, creating a jigsaw mess of yellow wood and rubber erasers– Except for one. One pencil didn’t move. My fingers stopped, gripping the thing. It wasn’t a pencil at all. Just a small carving that looked so similar to the others I would have completely missed it.

Joaquin blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. I leaned back in my chair, my mind slipping into a memory so vivid I could almost smell the chalk dust of our old classroom. “When I was nine, I had this school project. A short story assignment. It was a fable about a fox and a crow, nothing special. I didn’t even want to submit it. I thought it was silly.” Joaquin stayed quiet, watching me intently.

. I came home covered in dirt, crying miserably. Because we were poor, my pencil case was made by my father with cardboard. He was good at drawing and drew beautiful flowers on the pencil case. I liked it and cherished it. One day, those two bullies wet my pencil case with water. I got angry and grabbed the teacher's ruler, continuously whipping them with it... I kept whipping them as they ran away, I chased them without hesitation. I left whip marks on their bodies, some even bled. I think I was crazy at that time, I didn't even know where I got the courage to fight back, because those bullies often acted in ways that annoyed the teacher. I would only get scolded a few times, and after scho