The Pencil

They labelled me an unnecessary expense, a price too far. I argued my case, fought my corner, but ultimately lost. Half a life gone, and all I had left was a well-bitten pencil.
I swore that day to rebuild. That pencil became my symbol, my Phoenix from the flames. I drew and planned, planned and drew until all that remained was a stub of blunt lead.
I took my plans to those who'd cast me aside, plonked them on the table and watched them drool. When the offer came, which I knew it would, I rolled up my papers and left without saying goodbye.
I own the building now. Those who caused my rebirth sharpen my pencils. They're grateful for the money. I'm grateful for the reminder.

15 thoughts on “The Pencil

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