Pencils don't tremble on their own. His pencil was trembling, but he was not. How could this be? Water splashed down on the white surface. Microscopic grains of charcoal stood out on the page. Swirling: frank aloneness, nails bitten to the end, an orange haze clinging about the lamp posts. He stood there, his pencil jumping out of his fingers. Strategy: a mind that works like no one else's. No wonder. No courage.
He was a hermit because he lived simply. He walked to the end of the block and stopped. He peered into the murky haze. The pencil would not stay in his fingers. He caught at it, and yanked it back.
A cry in the fog. Shrill, but human. Or animal? He took half a step forward, and his neck grew like a crane. One minute. Two. The pencil danced in his fist.
Eeeiieee. The cry vibrated in his mind. Eyes shut, he opened his fist, and the pencil leapt into the murk.
photo by emily.