The Life of an Artist's Pencil

A monologue of a pencil's life.

Hello, my name is Shadow. I am a special pencil that is used specifically for artists who 

like to draw. My artist, sadly, is not using me at the moment, so I am alone with a blank 

page on a cold desk. I see her pace back and forth, trying to think of something to draw.

I called out to her, “Please, use me! Even if it’s for a small sketch!” All of a sudden, 

inspiration hit her. She sat down on a blue chair, and picked me up in her warm, but 

delicate right hand. I could feel a cool breeze as I was lifted into the air. I could see the 

paper as my sharp tip was placed against the blank page. I started to move in delicate 

motions, making markings on the blank page. The emotion of happiness is filling me. As 

sudden was her inspiration, the same could be said about her artist’s block. She stops 

using me and stared into space. Artist’s block is something that all pencils and pens fear 

the most. My artist likes to torture me when she is in this predicament. Just as I had 

figured the meaning behind her paused actions, she roughly banged my side against the 

desk. “Pl-please s-stop h-hurting meeeee!” She then stopped the banging, but went on to 

bring me closer to her mouth. I wasn’t to sure of what she was planning, but I could feel 

her hot breath on my body. I knew she was going to torture me more. She placed me in 

her mouth and she started to chew on my end, leaving horrible wounds as she bites down 

hard. Oh the agony! Oh the torture! After a brutal minute of constant chewing on my 

behind, she picked me up once again, and twirled me around in her right hand. Twirling 

me round, and round, and round. “I’m not feeling so good…” A final twirl and I lost the 

feeling of warmth; all I saw was her, spinning around. I started to feel a cold wind. As I 

was spinning, I saw the ground. “Oh no! I will break if I fall!” As I continued to spin out 

of control, I felt my back hit the floor. I heard the unavoidable shattering sound of my 

wooden body being broken in half. As I lay there, my body torn in two, gazing at the 

ending world around me as my life slips away. She walked over and picked my broken 

body up, and started to walk towards the darkness of Hell. She threw me in harshly into 

the darkness, never to see the light of day again. To suffer a lonely fate of that of a pencil 

who breaks.

Reviews

[Sydney]

This is surprisingly sad to read. Poor pencil. :( Great writing, though.

[shadowsen13232]

Thank you for reading it, and at the time of writing this, I had artist's block. :) I was simply thinking how my pencil would be thinking.