I am a pencil, but not just any pencil. I was special. I was longer than the others, sharper than the others, pointier than my peers, stronger, and bolder than anything else used for writing. To further emphasize my superiority over the others, I was placed on a higher shelf, alone on a stand, enclosed within a plastic casing which had a beautiful blue ribbon tied on it. I was THE pencil that children dreamed to have; and one such child had his dream come true when his parents bought me for him. I can still remember the ecstasy in his face when he tore open the wrappers and saw me inside them. Yes, I was a birthday gift for a poor boy barely six years of age who was going to begin his journey through school that week; and I was his sole weapon against the hordes of work that his would-be teachers would force him to do. I felt important, and I was probably right.

The little boy grew up to be a diligent worker, and he worked me hard. I was used to write thousands of words and solve hundreds of sums every day. Sometimes, he would lose hope of ever finishing his homework, but I was his shining star; his ray of hope, and whenever he stopped to look at me, he would feel refreshed, and we would continue the battle again with renewed vigour. The work was endless, but I thought that if we were together, we could overcome any obstacles his teachers might throw at him.

Over the years, I acquired many battle scars; a chipped head, scratches along my sides, and a broken point. Worst of all, I became short. However, I had some new comrades; pens. But I never liked them; they were always so smooth and sharp. They were different from me; they didn’t grow shorter when used, they didn’t need to be sharpened, and whatever they wrote couldn’t be erased. And they were slowly taking over what I used to do. They were relentless in their assault, and the boy relied on them much more than me.

Then, a tragic day came. As the boy was writing as quickly as possible, his hand bumped into me as I lay by his side. I rolled slowly towards the edge of the table. Normally, he would rush to grab me again, and place me securely in his pencil case. I was hoping he would do the same that time. I hoped, and I prayed, but the distance between me and my immediate demise became closer with each passing second. Right at the edge of the table, I hung momentarily, and spun around so that my tip was in the air. And then, I fell.

It was a long fall, and the moment I hit the ground my crooked graphite tip shattered into a million pieces. My fall echoed in his room and he stopped writing in alarm. He picked my broken body up and looked at me sadly. At the corner of my eye, I saw the pens grinning to themselves. I knew it too; I was broken and useless, too short to be sharpened again. The pens would completely erase my existence; all my glories would eventually be thrown away. The boy walked over to a dustbin, and with one last look and a sigh, he dropped me down.

I am a pencil, but not just any pencil. I was special. I was longer than the others, sharper than the others, pointier than my peers, stronger, and bolder than anything else used for writing. But that was a long time ago, when I could still be used. I do not regret my life, for I have been used as I should have. However, I have been thrown out; picked up by a truck, and dropped off into a landfill, away from my home. I lie, together with other betrayed and forgotten things, in the open, in the rain or shine. I lie, waiting to rot and be eaten by termites. I lie, waiting to return to nature, to come from a tree again, to be used as the pencil that I once was, and to be loved by another little boy again.

-Terence