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The Life of an Inanimate Object (Part II: Journey)

posted Feb 10, 2017, 5:20 AM by Jeffrey Wolf

By: Megan Cichon, Entertainment Editor

Posted February 10th, 2017


Part II: Journey


The box containing my new friends and I was placed into an even bigger box on top of even more boxes containing even more pencils. I found myself looking at a dirty metal ceiling. The room smelled the exact same way cars had when they’d driven past my mother tree.

Suddenly, there was a loud rumbling. Several pencils around me started screaming, and tried to move, but we were packed so close together that moving anywhere was next to impossible.

“We’re gonna die!” The one right next to me squealed.

I rolled my eyes

“We are not gonna die,” I assured them.

“Then what’s going on?” One questioned, “There’s a loud noise, and last time there was a loud noise, mother tree was cut down and we were all--”

“Stop your panicking,” a calm voice ordered, “You’ll be fine.”

We all looked around inside our box. No one had said anything.

“Who’s there?” I wondered, looking around.

The dark ceiling was still just as dark.

“Over here,” the voice called from my left.

I peered outside my box and saw another pencil. This one was considerably worn, so much so that his paint had chipped off. His eraser was gone, and he was quite short. He had a string tied around him, and he was dangling from a clip board.

“Who are you?” I wondered.

“My name is Preston,” he told me, “I’m twenty-two years old.”

My new friends and I gasped. We didn’t know much, but in the life of a pencil, twenty two human years was a very long time.

“What’s that loud rumbling?” The pencil behind me squeaked.

“You’re in a delivery truck,” Preston explained, flipping around to look at the clipboard he was attached to, “Looks like you’re headed to some superstore in California.”

“What’ll happen to us there?” Another friend of mine wondered.

Preston spun back around and looked at us with soft eyes.

“Ah, I remember when I was as young as you,” he said, reminiscing, “I was placed into a box much like the one you’re in, and shipped to Texas. I was bought at a store called “Weel-Mart”, and then I was tied here, and have spent every day since then writing down various numbers. I’ve seen a great many places, and know that the place you kids are heading to is filled with people who have all kinds of exciting uses for pencils.”

“Really?” A pencil at the opposite end of the box wondered, “Like what?”

“There are musicians in California, and those musicians use pencils to write their music,” Preston answered, “There’s writers there too, and they use pencils to write fantastic stories or poetry. There’s artists, who use you to create wondrous works. There’s sports coaches and athletes who will use you to write out plans and plays. The possibilities for you in California are endless.”

He smirked.

“Of course, you could end up in a retirement home, providing elderly humans with the ability to complete their crossword puzzles.”

That sounded exponentially much less exciting.
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