11 Little Tail

11 Little Tail

The pencil was eighteen centimetres long and bright yellow. But it wasn't your usual machine-hewn, perfectly hexagonal cylinder of wood, with a smooth point at one end and an eraser at the other. Oh no. For a start, it looked really old. Like, really, really old. Secondly, it had the feel of an object that had been whittled by hand. Carved, almost. None of the lines was quite straight. It looked more like a sculpture of a pencil than an actual writing implement. The pointy end, in particular, was quite remarkable. There was a centimetre or so of bare wood (the yellow coating looked like it had been hacked away by someone with a miniature axe) that surrounded a thick, black lead. The exposed lead was way longer than Peanut was used to: about half the length of her thumb. It too had a handmade feel, extending fairly evenly for a couple of centimetres before suddenly tapering to a very sharp point. The other end featured a small length of what looked like very thin silver rope that had been wrapped around the pencil

six times. It was holding a centimetre of pale blue rubber, roughly cut into a cylindrical shape. What Peanut was most fascinated by, however, were the faded letters running along the main body of the pencil. They had been printed very unevenly in black, and they read: L.......... OR... E All in all, it was, without doubt, the most beautiful object that Peanut had ever seen. Little Tail—that was the name on its box. She stared at it for a good five minutes before she dared pick it up. When she did, it was heavier than she'd expected. She mimed drawing a few shapes in the air while Catface, who had been hiding in her usual spot underneath the wardrobe, watched with a confused look on her face. Peanut jumped from the bed, rummaged through one of the piles on her desk and pulled out a plain piece of cartridge paper. She thought about how her life had changed since last year and how hopeless she felt. She wished that everything was the way it used to be. What she wouldn't give to wake up in the morning, kiss Mum and Dad goodbye and head off to Melody High. She recalled something Dad would tell her whenever she felt worried: Remember, Peanut, wherever a flower blooms, so does hope. Even the tiniest plant can have the toughest roots. She started to draw. The pencil moved across the paper

smoothly, its line crisp and even. It felt perfectly balanced in her hand, almost like it was an extension of her arm. Before she knew it, she was finished. She held up the drawing. 'Wherever a flower blooms, so does hope,' she said aloud. Catface yawned. Peanut looked over at her and yawned too. She suddenly felt exhausted. She found some Blu Tack and stuck her drawing to the wall, right next to her favourite Fantastic Four postcard. She carefully laid the pencil back in its secret hiding place in the box, put her pyjamas on and climbed into bed. She was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.