pencils.

20140331-173831.jpgThey all started to float. The pencils. They all started rising off the tables. The pens that held all the work and time we put into school. They started turning towards the prisoners of sheeple and pierced through their hearts. Disappearing,  they changed the kids. Abigale’s face started crawling with wrinkles. Her clothes became a dark, heather gray. The pink pleats turned into a white collar; the sweater became a dress suit; her leggings became a pencil skirt. The other kids changed too. Some became suit-wearers, others wore sweats and held unpaid bills. The teacher fell and so did some kids.  But they weren’t kids anymore. They were adults, adults whose childhood flew away and whose biggest bags were under their eyes. The adults looked around, realizing what was going on and what they were. Most people realized they weren’t really anything at all.

One girl was different. She didn’t live in a suit or sweats. Her eyes weren’t filled with regret or questioning.  She got up, and left the classroom. She knew what she was doing.

 


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