Writings on the Wall
by A.E. Brooks
You whittle and whittle, then whittle me away some more. I don’t understand the compulsion; the need. Am I not good enough for you?
Is that it?
I recognize the fact I’m unlike any other pencils you may have owned. It is not beyond me—the reason I exist—and for this purpose, I admit, my uniquity can be seen as a hindrance. The composite graphite core hidden underneath, waiting to emerge, yet my core stays buried beneath no matter how hard you try and uncover it. Eventually you will realize what you’re doing wrong. Eventually, you will see, it is not from the top where I reveal myself but from my bottom.
The synthetic rubber of my tail end is what my purpose represents. I do not sharpen. I merely extend. Though, I still shorten in length when being carved into, but it will only be more of my pink underbelly. You cannot improve my ability to write, only my ability to erase. This facet is dissimilar to other writing utensils, but with it I stand alone as a rarity. My implementation is limitless, if only you could see that. But alas, you don’t.
You have figured out my inner workings, decoded my exceptional quality and have shunned it. You slice me up—shave me into particles brushed about the atmosphere by the back of your hand—pushing further and further, pleading for a material to arise of which you can inscribe with.
I know of what you seek. I know where it is buried. At my top, where you expect it to be, it is there. Not much of it, but it is there. The amount you would expect to find from an ordinary pencil’s eraser end, is what I have in lead. The caveat: you have discovered. My eraser must be cut down ‘til no more, and then you will get what you came for. Is it worth it—I ask. You have to destroy the part of me that makes me special. You must ignore what I truly am, in order to attain what you want. You must be the river, flowing against the current. You must usher me upon death’s door.
All my warnings, my begging, and you still didn’t listen. I’m weak and tired now. I won’t survive much longer. You are content, however; in use by you, but not in the way I was meant to be. You are writing with me, and I am making you happy. Killing me slowly—you are happy.
Eight people arranged in a circle sitting around one another fall silent. With the man having finished, he folds over the sheet of paper he had been reading from and places it in his lap.
“So, how’d you guys like it,” he asks. “Did it resonate with you?”
The group turns to one another, sharing looks of indifference.
“It was alright,” the event coordinator spoke up. “But the pacing may need some work. I think you should get to the point quicker.