Memoirs of a Pencil

Out of the factory, separated from my family in the most tangible of ways, I hoped that we would still be able to share a spiritual connection; but alas, they were shipped to Staples.... I can only imagine the horrors they must have experienced.

My life was decidedly more pleasant, but thoughts of the grove still haunted me. However, Office Max became my home in due time, and I was the average precocious youngster; without supervision, myself and the others ran amok; we had no supervision, no short sticks to tell us what to do; we were free to do what we wished, when we wished to do it. We had no guidelines; we were free to steal the staples from the staplers, to capture the inkwells of pens; but it was an empty victory to wage war on those 'refined' utensils and tools.

Those fools refused to realize the truth; they were as much slaves as we were, and their only chance of survival was to strike back. Those pacifist fools, however, insisted on taking the moral high ground. They shied from the fact that the torrential rains of cruelty had turned it to mud.

Or maybe they just wanted Steve to finally buff their polish. Whatever.

As the days went on, my fellow writing utensils and I stayed within our box - we had no wish to be discovered by humans...

The first time I saw the light afterwards, my master - an old, stiff woman that really could use a sense of humor, pulled us all out of our box. I stood to, ready to give my all to the line of duty I had been conscripted to.

As I stood there, I realized that I stood before, not renowned world leaders, but third graders. Little midgets that were still learning to write. My life was being given so that children could learn to write - I was expendable, easily lost and forgotten.

Some of my friends fainted.

But the horror did not end there.

That old witch took us, and shoved us, HEAD FIRST, into an electric sharpener. The pain was excruciatingly painful, and I wondered if all mankind was this insane. Who in their right minds shoves a teenager into a sharp, metal thing, and grinds their head off? Its crazy - yet sadly, it is what we have come to expect.

After I was sharpened, I immediately fainted. Well, what do you think? You just shaved my head off, and you expect me to be alive and kicking?

Humans.

Anyways, I'm getting off topic here... where was I? Oh, yes, Barry.

Barry was a sweet, sweet boy. After he got me, he insisted on not writing with me at all. I was so touched, I felt like I was still in my cedar grove... this boy was sacrificing everything, everything he had, in order to stand up for my rights!

I can still remember how he just stood up and told that ridiculous Ms.Shumetsi (No wonder she wasn't married - I bet none of her potential boyfriends could even pronounce that!) in no uncertain terms, that he would fight for my freedom, no matter what it took.

"You crazy? I ain't taking no test! Wha d'I look like, some nancy boy whos just gonna sit there all polite?"

"Barry, sit down. No - no, Barry, don't jump on your desk! And put your shirt back on!"

It was an incredible example of the power of Satyagraha, and what can be accomplished with a peaceful bent.

Gandhi would approve.