BOOKS

I am the pencil.

And I am the eraser.

I have nothing in common with the pink rubber attached to my derriere.  To tell you the truth, I despise the color pink. I believe that yellow suits me well.

I enjoy destroying work. I will destroy lead that is sitting (like sitting ducks I might add) on a piece of lined paper with pleasure.

I create masterpieces. Verbs, adjectives, pronouns, nouns and adverbs, I trace with my pointy nose. Sometimes my nose gets dull and I go into a machine that is like a miniature car wash. It hurts dreadfully, scraping all the bones on my face!

I despise Pencil. And to retaliate for dirtying up pure white with multicolored lines of garbage, I erase it. I do not choose when to erase, but on certain words, I know that I need to rub against the paper.

I have to admit, I do need Eraser sometimes.  When I do not know how to spell a word, eraser comes and corrects it for me. (Sometimes, I think eraser is wrong, but I let him continue.)

To tell you the truth, Pencil is good to have around. I have seen many relatives separated from pencils, all alone, and it is a melancholy sight.

As time goes on, I get shorter and shorter.

As time goes on, I get smaller and smaller.

I fear that I may run out and get thrown away.

What if -- No, they couldn't throw me away?!

AAAH! I’m falling!!

Wind rushes past me! What’s happening? Am I FALLING?

It is dark in this place. No light penetrates this plastic prison.

I am cold in this place -- OUCH! Something just landed on top of me. It’s sticky and bubble-gum-y. EWWW!

I miss the light, I miss being able to have Eraser erase and correct me.

I miss the sun; I do not know what the sky looks like. I wish could read Pencil's elegant writing.

The End