Once upon a time there lived a pencil. This pencil had a problem. Her problem was that no one would believe she was alive. She knew she was alive because according to Descartes' "I think, therefor I am," she was alive if she thought, and she thought she was alive, so there you are. But unfortunately, she couldn't seem to convince anyone else of this fundamental truth. Had all pencils been alive, there would have been no problem. She could have told them in pencil-tongue that she was alive, and they would certainly have agreed, for they would have known that they were alive, so it would have come as no great shock to learn that she was, as well. But sadly for her, she was the only living pencil.

She tried to tell the living creatures of other species that she was alive, but she only met with failure after failure. It was most discouraging. The rabbits hopped about impatiently and asked if she had made as many little pencils as they had rabbits, and when they learned she had not even one little pencil of her own, they told her she therefore could not possibly be alive.

When she told the frogs that she was alive, they only belched at her rudely, and if to say, "Don't be absurd," and looked away. A tortoise refused to give her any kind of answer, and the humans were, as always, too caught up in their own concerns to notice anyone else's. She sought to catch their attention, but in vain.

All of this doubting soon gave her an identity crisis. Maybe she was just an inanimate object, after all, she thought to herself. But she still couldn't believe this, because according to Descartes, the very fact that she was thinking to herself at all proved she was alive. Completely confused, she began to cry.

Soon all her crying caught the attention of Prince Penciling, the only other living pencil. (You see, she had been mistaken in her belief that she was the only one. In fact, she was one of two.) Prince Penciling, in all his princely, pencilly glory, came to her to kiss the tears from her face and to comfort her, for this is what Princes Penciling do.

The moment his pencil-lips touched hers, the magic spell that had been in place was broken, and both young pencils reverted back to what they should have been all along: lifeless, inanimate, painted sticks with lead running through their centers and erasers stuck on their ends. The two pencils lived -- well, existed, anyhow -- happily ever after, and order was restored to the universe.



The End