Pencils
I woke to the sound of pencils dropping on the floor. I shifted onto my side and rubbed my eyes before I froze. I didn’t own pencils. I’m a writer that only uses pens. Not only that— I hardly use anything but my phone notes these days.
The pencils rolled across the floor. Beads of sweat slowed as the dripped down the back of my neck.
Someone cleared their throat— I couldn’t move. I wanted to cry, but knew I needed to turn and face whoever was in the room. If I died, I’d do it facing them.
A molasses age later I found myself looking at a old man dressed in tweed. The middle of his torso seemed hazy as I stared at him in disbelief. He leveled flat, black eyes at me.
“Arthur, have you been studying?” He said in a stern voice. The room felt like it collapsed into a crawl space. It was only me & him.
“…I’m not Arthur,” I manage to whisper.
“You should have been studying. I told you you needed to study,” he said bending down to pick up translucent pencils.