If Pencils...

The papers sat neatly stacked in a pile off to the left, on top of three partially filled books. The pencil, motionless, was perched on top of this, calling out to be picked up and muddled over, calling for a stream of lead to be released. Counter enemies sat on the right - biros of red, blue and black. Disorganised sheets of notepaper, the glass of water ready to attack. If pencils coulder shiver, it would, in anticipation for that next change of word, that next honourable parargaph. But they can't. And it sat as motionless as ever.

[98 words]