The one all alone

It was the pencil never used. Sitting there at the bottom of the pencil bag. Why was it there? Who knew. The graphite was terrible. It never remained sharp. The eraser had fallen out of the other side of it. This pencil was the worst of all possible pencils.

Outcast.

Well, outcast if one considered it with a modicum of personification. In truth, the owner of this pencil always forgot it was there. Except for the occasional moment when they pulled it out and then stuck it back in. There was never a wastebasket around to dispose of it at those moment. And then it was forgotten.

Which was fine. It filled out the pencil bag a bit more.

School was saved.

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