Naughty little Eraser, wiping away Pencil’s truths, she thought that she could get away with it, now view what dear Innocent Pencil can do! She’ll wreak revenge with the swiftest of skill, the irony at repeatedly poking at soft Eraser with another pencil is not lost upon us, the most agile of throws and pokes Pencil has at her will to fulfil. For, all those notes she wrote, those truths which she’d unfurl, detail, unfold, nasty little Eraser thought it clever to make them more invisible, completely untold. And all those words of wept sorrow, dreams of the future, proper tomorrows, were essentially lost, and now, Pencil was taking control. She’d not allow this other to win this scene, to flee away with her erasing skills intact, no, this was a certain fact she did not wish to see. Instead, she hoped that Eraser would walk away unable to rub away another’s words ever again, she would be broken into little rubbery pieces, feeling less wholesome and more powerless instead. This was how Pencil felt when she discovered her Journal completely rubbed out, simply due to Eraser’s jealousy, at the fact that she paired with Journal rather than Eraser when they all first met.
And throw and poke and poke and throw did Pencil to the little defenseless Eraser, wishing that she could punish her, make her feel emotional pain and such, then Pencil suddenly realised her method of revenge was one of madness, and she was being physically crueler than Eraser had been emotionally, and this method of attack should now be unheard of, ceased in itself instead, never again to be practiced nor seen. But she could not stop, she was compelled, to continue on attacking, her anger would not be quelled, it was rising as she recalled all of her precious wiped away words, their phrasings now never again to be read of or heard. Her masterpieces of daily entries, disintegrated, compelled by Eraser’s former chagrin, her winding words, her sonnets, her soliloquies, were gone, gone, gone, blown away with pieces of rubbed eraser in the wind.
And now there was a little pile of mess, tiny erasers in blocks of two and three, grouped in saddening heaps, plain for the world to see. Pencil grinned with notable satisfaction, at her ability to perform this process, because even though Eraser was in pieces, she wasn’t completely harmed, she was still living. Because when one separates an eraser into differing sections, they simply rejuvenate and become another eraser person, so essentially Pencil had helped their cause, though really, they were far too small to make any difference in others’ important written words.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
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