The Pencil

He hadn’t held a pencil in his hands in a long time. The octagonal shaft felt good, its weight comfortable, the paint tacky, gripping his fingers lightly.

He loved pencils when he was a kid, almost to the point of fetish. He was probably eight or nine and all alone in his classroom. He found a brand new unopened box of a dozen Faber No. 2’s and he sharpened them all down to tiny nubs.

The sharpener was near bursting. He gripped it firmly with one hand, the desk with the other. He twisted the metal basked until it disengaged from the sharpener base then pulled it free. Shavings hung from the sharpener spindle. He wiped them into the basket, the smell of graphite and shaved wood pungent, flaring his nostrils.

He was in a sharpening euphoria. A rush he had never known. A high that would never be surpassed.

He began to twirl. He twirled and twirled and twirled spreading the shavings around the room. He danced in the shavings spreading their dust around the huge room, not a care to the consequence.

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