Eleven Pencils
By: Michael Cottle
I stare at pencils crammed in a Snoopy cup. The cup was a gift, but I bought the pencils. There were twelve of them, but now I only count eleven. Who took my pencil? The curiosity runs through my brain at the speed of light and short circuits all other thoughts.
I probably drank too much coffee. It shouldn’t do such a thing. But, it does. Someone took my pencil. They have no such plan to bring it back. I feel that as much, and now the odd number is repugnant. There is no suitable way to arrange them in a symmetrical pattern. It’s painful to look at, and so I am at a crossroads. Should I wait for its return? Try to find who took it? Or do I lose another one, so I will be at ten?
When you’ve been around for as long as I have, it is the little things that trouble you. You see, I’ve walked this earth in numerous forms. I taught man how to make fire. It was not my intention have you. I was simply trying to keep warm, and roast some wild hog. But the other Neanderthals couldn’t let it go, and soon man was blazing up the earth left and right.
Technology? Yes, I’m afraid that it is I who ignited this intellectual storm of mankind. I brought our founding fathers to the stone age, and then I brought them through it. And now I sit at my desk drinking coffee and wondering who stole my pencil. If you have to ask why the twelfth pencil is so important, then my friend, I’m afraid you will never understand. There’s no way for me to explain it to you if you do not already understand it.
Unlike coffee, the taste for technology has long gone sour for me. Man was better off staring into space rather than little lighted screens with purple finger prints covering them. At least back then, most would think twice before simply taking another man’s writing stick. And now, no one understands that eleven little writing sticks is a most ridiculous number. Why not simply take two pencils? That would have at least been worthy of some sort of decency! No, they only took just what they needed, with a complete disregard for a man’s symmetrical well-being! I pick up the odd pencil of the bunch and give it a snap. The pieces I fling into the trash with great precision.
Now, there are ten pencils in the cup.
“Mr. Lowe? Mr. Lowe?”
“Yes, Jill. What is it?” I answer.
“I borrowed one of your pencils for a bit. Hope you didn’t mind?”
“No, Jill. Of course not.”
“Thanks! Here you go.” Jill puts the pencil back in my Snoopy cup.
My pulse quickens again and my muscles tense at the sight of odd number of pencils. I force a smile as Jill leaves the office. And when she does, I completely collapse.
“What in Sam hell did she do that for?” I wonder. I run both hands and all ten fingers through my hair. I can’t force myself to look in the cup, but I know it’s there. From the corner of my eye, I see the twelfth pencil broken into pieces in the trash. I acted with haste and without knowledge, and this was the cost.
Now, I think I must break another pencil. That will leave me with ten. That’s a nice number. Two groups of five, yes, now that I can deal with. I reach into the cup, and snap the eleventh pencil in half. I hold it momentarily before quickly getting rid of it in the trash.
The world is right for a moment. Why shouldn’t it be? Yes, I’ve been around for millennia! I first gave mankind fire and thus the downward spiral into the tangling web of technology. Yes, I’ve made mistakes, but no more. I see the cup, and I notice that three groups of three seems to be more appealing. It gnaws on my innards until I can stand no more. The clock stands still in anticipation. Each ticking second pounds with a thunder.
Snap! The tenth pencil is broken in the trash. I am happy, and all is right with the world with everyone with their little noses stuck into to their lighted screens. Why did I ever show them fire? I can only wonder.
And then I realize that eight is an absolute perfect cube of the first even number. The thought of it is more than I can bear. I pull the ninth pencil from the cup and the eight remaining is just as wonderful as I had expected. Yes, a perfect cube of pencils. Two to the three! Perfect! I snap the ninth pencil in a triumphant smile of satisfaction with its remains neatly in the trash can- dead center.
I stare at the perfect cube of pencils and it makes me smile. Yes, it is beautiful, but I notice that there isn’t enough odd in the number. It’s actually two groups of four. If there were simply two groups of three, then that would make more sense. And as soon as that thought made any sense, pencils seven and eight lie broken in the trash with the other four.
So, I’ve made a few mistakes in my time. Fire and the guillotine being a couple of them. Boy that was a mistake, but I had to admit it was a crowd pleaser. Everyone loved to watch the guillotine in action. I should have never made the plans for that wretched device. I showed that quill stealing thief a thing or two though. He never made that mistake again. He was the first of many to lose their head of my little invention.
Why do I have six pencils? Six is the devil’s number- an old wives’ tale I beg and plea with myself. But I know it is truly the devil’s number. The devil won’t get me. He can’t get me. The sixth pencil is snapped and in the trash. Five just doesn’t work for me. Another odd number to deal with? Never! Snap! Number five is in the trash.
Two to the two. Two times two. Two plus two. Two, two, two, two, two! How ridiculous this number four built entirely of twos? Hip to be square, I think not! The absurdity is insane! Snap! Number four is gone and forgotten. Forever.
Three pencils. A stable triangle. No more groups thank heavens, but separate entities. Each a cornerstone of the minimally sided polygon. But triangle-nometry was so stupid. I should have never showed Pythagoras that theorem. He never could figure out that pi was indeed transcendental, and thus never one side of a right triangle with the other sides being of integer lengths. What an idiot! Cosine this you insignificant three! And number three joined the other nine in the trash.
And now, I am left with two pencils. Two? Really? I snap the last two and throw them in the trash. It is almost lunch time.
“Jill, hold my calls, will you?” I call her extension from my phone.
“Of course, Mr. Lowe” she says in her usually cheerful voice. I don’t know what her problem is. Crazy, I reckon.
As I leave the office to go shop for another twelve pencils, an ingenious idea overcomes me. I shall release unto the world the “fidget spinner”. Between staring at their little lighted screens and spinning those things around, maybe, just maybe, they will leave my damn pencils alone!
By: Michael Cottle
I stare at pencils crammed in a Snoopy cup. The cup was a gift, but I bought the pencils. There were twelve of them, but now I only count eleven. Who took my pencil? The curiosity runs through my brain at the speed of light and short circuits all other thoughts.
I probably drank too much coffee. It shouldn’t do such a thing. But, it does. Someone took my pencil. They have no such plan to bring it back. I feel that as much, and now the odd number is repugnant. There is no suitable way to arrange them in a symmetrical pattern. It’s painful to look at, and so I am at a crossroads. Should I wait for its return? Try to find who took it? Or do I lose another one, so I will be at ten?
When you’ve been around for as long as I have, it is the little things that trouble you. You see, I’ve walked this earth in numerous forms. I taught man how to make fire. It was not my intention have you. I was simply trying to keep warm, and roast some wild hog. But the other Neanderthals couldn’t let it go, and soon man was blazing up the earth left and right.
Technology? Yes, I’m afraid that it is I who ignited this intellectual storm of mankind. I brought our founding fathers to the stone age, and then I brought them through it. And now I sit at my desk drinking coffee and wondering who stole my pencil. If you have to ask why the twelfth pencil is so important, then my friend, I’m afraid you will never understand. There’s no way for me to explain it to you if you do not already understand it.
Unlike coffee, the taste for technology has long gone sour for me. Man was better off staring into space rather than little lighted screens with purple finger prints covering them. At least back then, most would think twice before simply taking another man’s writing stick. And now, no one understands that eleven little writing sticks is a most ridiculous number. Why not simply take two pencils? That would have at least been worthy of some sort of decency! No, they only took just what they needed, with a complete disregard for a man’s symmetrical well-being! I pick up the odd pencil of the bunch and give it a snap. The pieces I fling into the trash with great precision.
Now, there are ten pencils in the cup.
“Mr. Lowe? Mr. Lowe?”
“Yes, Jill. What is it?” I answer.
“I borrowed one of your pencils for a bit. Hope you didn’t mind?”
“No, Jill. Of course not.”
“Thanks! Here you go.” Jill puts the pencil back in my Snoopy cup.
My pulse quickens again and my muscles tense at the sight of odd number of pencils. I force a smile as Jill leaves the office. And when she does, I completely collapse.
“What in Sam hell did she do that for?” I wonder. I run both hands and all ten fingers through my hair. I can’t force myself to look in the cup, but I know it’s there. From the corner of my eye, I see the twelfth pencil broken into pieces in the trash. I acted with haste and without knowledge, and this was the cost.
Now, I think I must break another pencil. That will leave me with ten. That’s a nice number. Two groups of five, yes, now that I can deal with. I reach into the cup, and snap the eleventh pencil in half. I hold it momentarily before quickly getting rid of it in the trash.
The world is right for a moment. Why shouldn’t it be? Yes, I’ve been around for millennia! I first gave mankind fire and thus the downward spiral into the tangling web of technology. Yes, I’ve made mistakes, but no more. I see the cup, and I notice that three groups of three seems to be more appealing. It gnaws on my innards until I can stand no more. The clock stands still in anticipation. Each ticking second pounds with a thunder.
Snap! The tenth pencil is broken in the trash. I am happy, and all is right with the world with everyone with their little noses stuck into to their lighted screens. Why did I ever show them fire? I can only wonder.
And then I realize that eight is an absolute perfect cube of the first even number. The thought of it is more than I can bear. I pull the ninth pencil from the cup and the eight remaining is just as wonderful as I had expected. Yes, a perfect cube of pencils. Two to the three! Perfect! I snap the ninth pencil in a triumphant smile of satisfaction with its remains neatly in the trash can- dead center.
I stare at the perfect cube of pencils and it makes me smile. Yes, it is beautiful, but I notice that there isn’t enough odd in the number. It’s actually two groups of four. If there were simply two groups of three, then that would make more sense. And as soon as that thought made any sense, pencils seven and eight lie broken in the trash with the other four.
So, I’ve made a few mistakes in my time. Fire and the guillotine being a couple of them. Boy that was a mistake, but I had to admit it was a crowd pleaser. Everyone loved to watch the guillotine in action. I should have never made the plans for that wretched device. I showed that quill stealing thief a thing or two though. He never made that mistake again. He was the first of many to lose their head of my little invention.
Why do I have six pencils? Six is the devil’s number- an old wives’ tale I beg and plea with myself. But I know it is truly the devil’s number. The devil won’t get me. He can’t get me. The sixth pencil is snapped and in the trash. Five just doesn’t work for me. Another odd number to deal with? Never! Snap! Number five is in the trash.
Two to the two. Two times two. Two plus two. Two, two, two, two, two! How ridiculous this number four built entirely of twos? Hip to be square, I think not! The absurdity is insane! Snap! Number four is gone and forgotten. Forever.
Three pencils. A stable triangle. No more groups thank heavens, but separate entities. Each a cornerstone of the minimally sided polygon. But triangle-nometry was so stupid. I should have never showed Pythagoras that theorem. He never could figure out that pi was indeed transcendental, and thus never one side of a right triangle with the other sides being of integer lengths. What an idiot! Cosine this you insignificant three! And number three joined the other nine in the trash.
And now, I am left with two pencils. Two? Really? I snap the last two and throw them in the trash. It is almost lunch time.
“Jill, hold my calls, will you?” I call her extension from my phone.
“Of course, Mr. Lowe” she says in her usually cheerful voice. I don’t know what her problem is. Crazy, I reckon.
As I leave the office to go shop for another twelve pencils, an ingenious idea overcomes me. I shall release unto the world the “fidget spinner”. Between staring at their little lighted screens and spinning those things around, maybe, just maybe, they will leave my damn pencils alone!