The Yellow Number 2

              An ordinary pencil, a weary writer, and a bit of unexpected enchantment collided one winter night. 

As if things couldn’t get any worse, some friends from work had sent more presents home with me. The unwritten rule was to return the favor, right? Great… Now I have to go out and find presents for them. Go out in the snow, fight the crowds, and oh god, the parking!  And then there were those people with their perpetually happy faces frozen into smiles that must have hurt by the end of the day, and all those dang “Merry Christmas, Merry Christmases they sling around! And don’t even get me started on the store music, how many times do we have to hear Jingle Bells!

Take this gift, for instance. I just opened the box, and it's a pencil— can you believe it? Somebody sent me a pencil. It’s not even a fancy one where you click and a lead comes out. It’s just a yellow number 2 pencil with a regular eraser and a pointed end. I guess they thought that because I’m trying to be a writer, it wouldn’t hurt to have another pencil.

I tossed it on the desk, feeling just a bit guilty. I did feel grateful. Mostly. But my gratitude was stretched thin, like the tinsel on my plastic tree. It’s just one more thing.

Where was my holiday spirit? It had fizzled out like the Christmas lights when I plugged them in.

I picked the pencil up again to read the lettering on the side: "Enchanted Writes." I laughed. I could use a bit of enchantment. I needed a fairy tale; I needed a good fairy tale story before Friday.

I set the pencil down a bit more gently and checked for a card. A sticker on the box side said: “For your Holiday Spirit. S.N.”

I snorted, trying to imagine which friend thought this was a good idea. Did I even know a S.N?

I did a quick tally of my bank balance. It was already suffering. Christmas had a way of making me feel inadequate.

I grabbed my wallet and keys, flipped off the lights, and thought of all the other pressing Christmas chores to do as I left the apartment.

Meanwhile, in the dark, the yellow pencil rolled quickly across the desk, banged into a stack of books, and flipped onto its pointed end. Its red eraser split into a wide grin as it point-hopped to a large, open notebook and began writing on the blank page in large, looping script.

             Alone in the dark, it wrote:

Once upon a time, there was a peculiar forest that everyone knew could not be entered. Hordes of ticks lingered at its edges, ready to greet unsuspecting hikers. Poison oak could present itself suddenly everywhere, even out of season.

The scratching sound the pencil made swallowed the apartment's silence, and would have raised hairs on the back of anyone's neck, had they been there.

Much later…

Three flights of stairs, arms full of bags, my last bit of patience evaporated just as I came home, flipped on the lights, and dumped the purchases on the drooping sofa. My eyes flicked to the unopened wine. If I started with that, I’d never get a story written— the deadline already a weight on my chest.

The writing desk was my pride and joy. Yes, it was a put-together IKEA piece, but it held the heart of my life. All the things that made my writing hand tingle and twitch, ready to write, sat there—my favorite stack of writing-help books, my piles of papers, and the oversized metal snail paperweight. My eyes traveled over it, pulling a grin to my face, which froze when my eyes snagged on my once pristine writing journal next to it. I had left it open to crisp, empty white pages, waiting for my words. But someone had got there first! Thick spidery words filled the first page and the next, and the next! Quickly, I began to read; it was a story I had in my mind, but had never written.

How in the world? How could this happen? Was I losing my mind? I felt instant fear, then switched to indignation. How dare someone write this without my permission!  I called out, “Who did this?” instantly feeling foolish.

The pencil box on the desk rattled. I’m sure my eyes widened as I stared at it. It continued to rattle until the lid popped open, and that Yellow Number 2 rolled itself upright on my desk. It point-hopped to the nearest page and wrote "ME" in a looping script.

I went looking for the wine opener.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ah— Yellow Pencil, sir— that is not the story I’m writing!” I scolded the pencil.

“What I mean is it's not your story to write, who said you could get into my mind, my stuff— and why am I talking to a pencil!” I waved my hands expressively.

It began writing again, but I snatched the notebook away, wine opener in one hand, “We are not doing this!”

I erased the first lines of the story, and heard scratching, looked down, and saw the pencil writing on yet another piece of paper on the desk:

"Once upon a time,"

I scribbled over it: “No Forest, no bugs!”

The pencil leaned back and took me in. It eased around my hand and scribbled quickly again:

“Mushroom fruits popped up from the leafy forest floor like submarine periscopes to check out what there was to see.”

“Not that line,” I practically screeched, “That was one of my best sentences!”

I went looking for a glass, glaring back at the Pencil, “Break a lead, or something. I have to write a real story! With you know, witches and unicorns, magic fairy tale stuff.”

I could hear the pencil scribbling madly as I popped the cork and shouted, “Knock yourself out—I don’t have a pencil sharpener!”

Which was a lie, I did.

“I want it to say in a land far, far away, and end with happily ever after,” I snapped.

 Also, a lie.

Back at the desk, I eased into my chair, sipping wine. The pencil paused as if thinking, a grin cracked across its eraser, and it scribbled even faster.

“What, what are you writing now?” I reached for the paper, but the pencil slapped at my fingers, like a teacher’s ruler.

I quickly snatched every available piece of paper off the desk, hugging them to my chest.  That darn pencil looked up at me, leaned backwards, an open “O” mouth shape in its eraser, and then started scribbling madly on the desk top itself!

“Wait, wait, stop!” I shouted, “Not the desk, please! OK, I’ll look at what you have.” It stopped mid-scribbling and looked at me attentively.

I sorted the pages and found its latest scribble at the top of the page; it said, "Merry Christmas list.”

“Oh God, not you too, I moaned dispiritedly.

Then read: Item 1: Apartment C4 needs a new apron. Use the last white elephant gift from last year, still with its tag, in your closet.

“What?” I whispered and slowly stood to check the closet, and indeed, there was the apron. I glanced down at the paper again.

Item 2: Apartment E15 desperately needs a big bag of kitty litter. Get it from the corner market. In parentheses, (she can’t carry it up the stairs, broken hip) was added.

I looked at the pencil with growing wonder. I swear its eraser was cocked to the side, as if it was saying, "Well, get going."

That yellow number two had a simple list right from my own apartment building, neighbors I hadn’t spoken to or seen in a while, if ever. I sipped wine as we began to collaborate, feeling excitement build. It felt so different knowing I could make a difference in someone’s life rather than just giving an obligatory gift.

We made plans together and discussed what I could afford and how to go about it until I fell asleep at the desk, my head on my arms, and the pencil nestled in my hair behind my ear.

By morning, I bravely and expertly traversed the Christmas terrain of town once more. I even heard myself humming along with Jingle Bells and shook my head. What had gotten into me? But I smiled a broad, genuine grin, feeling warmth in my chest. Yes, my cheeks ached just a bit, and I smiled even more.

I had dropped off the wrapped apron gift earlier on my way out. A rush of warm, sourdough scent had wafted out of the apartment when a flour-covered young woman gazed at me wonderingly from her doorway. "It's just an apron,” I had said by way of introduction. “I am your neighbor in C7,” I added lamely.

She had thrown herself at me, squeezing me in a serious hug, tearing open the package, and exclaiming, "Oh my, it's just like the one my granny used to have! Where did you ever find it!”

That had started my smile.

By the end of the day, I had found a loaf of warm bread in a bag outside my door, and inside on the desk, my fairy tale story sat finished. The one in my head I didn’t think was good enough, written in that looping script. The pencil lay still and quiet beside it.

For once, I felt happy, really, happy. I pulled out more wrapping paper and tape and started in, humming along with I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas playing loudly from Apartment C5.

Acknowledgment to Reedsy.com for providing the prompt:

"Write a story that includes the phrase “once upon a time…”, “in a land far, far away…”, or “happily ever after…”

contest #334, which inspired the story.

https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/

 

The Ice Cream Cone

 

 

 

  An important errand in the city turns into something Ellie never planned — and never forgot.

 

She pushed her thick wire-rimmed glasses farther up on her nose, squaring off with the parking meter so different from how she remembered them to be. Her squat, short build put her face close to the directions. The meter accepted her little-used plastic card after spitting out the quarters it didn’t want, which sprinkled the sidewalk with metallic tinks.

She glanced spitefully at them lying on the ground. They may have only been two feet away from her fingers, but bending over and trying to pick them up was not going to happen. Her mouth pinched in agitation. Why did everything have to be so hard!

She had grown livid from the traffic and the inability to find a place to park, driving around and around the block, no easy feat for someone who had just turned eighty. It was a miracle she found this parking place at all, and conveniently right across from what she was looking for, a restroom, and something special. A gas station might have had one item, but not the other thing she wanted.

Who would have thought it was so difficult in this vast city to find a place for a little old lady to relieve herself? The meter blinked back at her: ten minutes. Her anger mounted at the cost. She would have to walk across two streets, order something, and hope the restroom wasn’t occupied.

It wasn’t as though everyone at the senior center hadn’t warned her she shouldn’t go to the city by herself. But none of them had offered to go along. They’ve been warning her for some time that she shouldn’t even be driving, but here she was, and she had done it.

She had come to pick up his ashes because there was no one else who would.

Really, she didn’t even owe him that kindness and had wrestled with the decision for days. There were some things in life you did because they were right, not because you wanted to, even if they were difficult.

Long ago, he had been a husband, a father, a good man, the king of their kingdom, before he forgot them, and in the end, forgot himself.

 Sometimes people deserve to be remembered for their best moments. She wondered if the world had been kind to him. Now his ashes sat boxed in cardboard on the passenger seat of the car.

If she lived to tell this tale, she wasn’t going to share with those old folks even half of it. It had taken everything to get this far, and she still had to drive home.

Ellie wouldn’t tell them how terribly fast everybody drove, or how slow she had to go just to read the freeway signs and find the correct off-ramp. She would not admit how many times people had angrily honked or how frightened she had been.  Nor would she tell them how many times she had gone around and around on the various stacked freeways, splitting off in different directions, leaving her confused.  It had taken several wrong turns to get here.

She would tell them about the cars that passed her, driven by themselves. Something she still found hard to believe. They had all read the articles in the shared newspaper and even seen a clip or two on the news, but she now had seen them with her own eyes. She would also tell them about the park she had found by accident, turning down the wrong street. It boasted plants from all over the world, according to the pamphlet. She had sat there on a bench in the sun, eating her breakfast sandwich and fruit she had brought from home.

Now, she glared back once more at the offensive meter, then walked to the first crosswalk, clutching her purse and coat tighter against her chest. There were so many people everywhere, nothing like what she was used to. Nearby, one or two people lingered with shopping carts full of belongings, their mismatched layers pulled tight against the cold. Others talked to themselves in vivid, colorful conversations. Bicyclists were weaving through traffic, and clever young people were riding those two-wheeled contraptions, backpacks on their backs, hands gripping the handlebars as they wove down the road.

She was still able to drive, which put her ahead of most of the old biddies at the Senior Center. It gave her an edge. She mattered because she could provide rides when needed. They asked her for help on one side of their mouth, while saying with the other, "Ellie, you probably shouldn’t be driving."

Easy for them to scold. Some had children who could chauffeur them. Some had money for rides, and some still had driving spouses, but not all. Sometimes life just felt impossible.

The crosswalk chirped and clicked as the Walk symbol appeared. Beeping noises continued as she crossed. It was no surprise that she was only halfway across before it switched to Stop Walking. Another thing city planners never thought of: some people take longer to cross the street. Not everything should be done in a hurry.  

Stubbornly, she kept her pace. She stared straight ahead, avoiding the eyes of impatient drivers.  Her special orthopedic shoes had probably been perfect 10 years ago, but she hadn’t wanted to replace them. She felt every pebble and scrap beneath her feet. They really ought to think about street cleaning here, she thought.

Someone else had pushed the button on the next crosswalk. So she waited with the others as patiently as she could.

               I really— really need a restroom, she chanted in her mind.

Once across the street, she went into the fast-food burger shop, noticing the floors first, as she always did. It wasn’t just because she was bent over, though she was, but because she watched where she stepped. The floor was filthy. Black and brown marks from outdoor dirt and shoe scuffs covered the floor. Bits of food and packaging were littered around.  Were people expected to eat here?

She didn’t even want to look around at the tables or the customers. She was eager to order something that would fulfill her old tradition and give her the privilege of using their restroom.

A security guard lingered near the counter and gave her a slight nod. The scent of food reminded her she hadn’t eaten for a while, and her stomach growled. She didn’t even look at the order board. She knew exactly how much money she had for this whole ordeal, and she would allow herself one thing: a soft-serve ice cream cone. It had been their special date in the good years. They had strolled hand in hand through the town center, each enjoying a cone. Did this world even care about traditions anymore, she wondered.

Ice cream was not ideal on a cold winter day, but it was meaningful. Ellie intended to sit in the car and eat next to him. She navigated the ordering, handing the clerk her wrinkled five-dollar bill.  She breathed in a deep breath, glancing around now for the other thing she wanted, and let it out in a long whoosh when she saw the bathroom sign.

The door had a number panel, much like the old phones did back in the day. She stared at it. Another customer came behind her and said, “You need the code.” He waited a moment more, then recited it to her, stepping back behind her in line. His accent was heavy, and she couldn’t place it. Her physical discomfort pressed down on her. All she could do was stare harder at the panel.

Before she could react, he reached past her shoulder and quickly punched in the numbers that released the door.

She couldn’t even take a moment to thank him, rushing inside with relief. The bathroom was worse than anything she’d seen. Ellie shook her head at the nature of some people who didn’t understand the importance of cleanliness.

At the sink, she caught her reflection. She looked exhausted, older than she felt. The harsh light deepened the lines in her pale face, and her snow-white hair had blown into a wild, disheveled bob around her head. How had she ended up here in this dirty bathroom, miles and miles from her calm, uneventful life? Maybe she wasn’t just stubborn but a foolish old lady, too.

The guard smiled at her as she passed to the pickup counter, where her ice cream cone waited. At least the food area was clean, and for a moment, she wished she’d ordered a burger. But traditions were more important.

With her cone carefully held in one hand and her purse clutched tightly in the other, she shuffled to the exit— and met another woman’s gaze.  

The woman was rubbing her palms together to warm them. She sat on a table bench near the exit. Holding Ellie's gaze, she lifted her finger to her lips in that universal sign for food. She looked as old and tired as Ellie felt. She wore no coat. Her charcoal-graying hair swirled up in a messy doo. Her cocoa-rich skin, every bit as wrinkled as Elly's, spoke of a harsh life. She sat alone in a thin dress with braided sandals on her misshapen feet.

Sandals, on a day like today.

The woman was smiling, hopeful, and when acknowledged, a beautiful curve of lips transformed her face.

In another life, Ellie thought she could have been on the cover of Time Magazine, a proud tribal queen. But today, she was just another old lady in a dirty food place in a vast city, hungry and worn, asking for food.

Somebody's wife, a mother, somebody's grandmother. In some world, a queen.

Without thinking, Ellie handed her the cone and nodded—one queen to another—before turning back to her car and its quickly emptying meter.

 

Acknowledgment to Reedsy.com for providing the prompt:

Include the name of a dish, ingredient, or dessert in your story’s title.

contest #333, which inspired the story.

https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/