The Pencils

A short story about the intertwined course of events between two strangers, whose fates bump into each other, to momentarily share the grief and pain of the individual trauma they both carry.

Click, clack, click, clack, click.

The sound of my heels trading over the grimy New York pavement mixed with the hurried tones of the woman on the phone next to me, the exhale of an old man as he breathed out a plume of smoke, and the chitter-chatter of a girl in a stroller, talking excitedly to her dolly. 

This was what I loved about the city. The sights, the sounds, the smell - everything, really. I caught a whiff of second-hand cigarette smoke as I passed the old man. He started to wheeze and cough, guttering for air. I turned around.

"Sir, are you all right?"

He kept spluttering, so I hurried into the store behind him, the door chiming as I made my way to the small counter. "Do you have any water, ma'am? There's a man outside choking." 

A dark-headed, lean lady with brilliant green eyes emerged from behind the counter. 

"Oh, sure, here you go." She handed me a water bottle. I muttered a quick 'thank you' and scuttled away, hoping the old man had stopped choking. I pushed open the frost-edged door and my warm hand left an imprint on the icy glass.

"Sir? Sir?"

But he was nowhere to be seen.

                       ________

I walked back inside the store, a soft swooshing sound reaching my ears as the door swung back. Walking towards the counter, I saw a pack of colouring pencils on display. 

I stopped.

The cool metal feel of the tin against my fingertips felt familiar. I took down the pencils and turned them over, looking for the price tag.

"Was he okay?"

The soft voice of the polite shopkeeper brought me out of my momentary haze.

"He was gone, actually. It was weird," I replied. She laughed. "Stranger things have happened."

I smiled and nodded. 

Her gaze travelled to my hand. "Oh, those pencils are on sale. 15 dollars, now." She strode towards me, flicking her emerald green scarf over her shoulder. "And they've got the loveliest colours - see?"

She opened the tin, and the click of the metal crashed over me like a tidal wave.

Mum.

The grey carpet.

Crumpled paper.

It took me a moment to pull myself together. Breathe in, breathe out. Come on, I thought. Just a memory, just a memory.

I'll give you a minute to decide." The lady smiled and walked back to the register. 

I ran my fingers over the pencils, heart throbbing at the sound of the pencils rolling over in their plastic wedges - and the memories that came with it. 

                       __________

"Mummy, what colour are giraffes?"

"They can be any colour you want them to be, sweetie."

"No, but what colour are they really?"

"Orange-y brown, hon."

"Thanks mummy."

Sitting and drawing with her, laughing and playing, pencil shavings embedding themselves in the soft grey carpet. The twinkling sound of her laughter that seemed to last forever.

But it didn't. 

Next came the onslaught of the other memories. I watched a little girl with my eyes as she lost her wonder. 

Beeping machines, whitewashed walls, the smell of antiseptic and rubber gloves and death. The squeaky wheel on the front left corner of her mother's hospital bed. The grey pallor of her face, shiny in the offensively bright hospital light. 

Then the cool breeze of winter, and the sniffling noises of her father. The black, itchy dress and the priest's monotonous voice... reading the same script he had read yesterday, and the day before... and worst of all, the moment she pushed open the door of the house, running up the stairs, waiting for her mother to announce, "They return!" in her grandest voice. 

But the only sound she heard was the ugly heave of her father's sobs. 

                    ____________

I slam down the pencils, about to storm out, when I hear the shopkeeper start to talk again. I regather myself, shaking the looming, telltale shadow from my face. 

"I have some of those pencils, you know. I draw to work things through with myself. It's cheaper than therapy." She chuckled. "You okay there?"

I breathed out heavily. I just wanted to run away, get out of this place. 

The shopkeeper pointed to a frame on the wall and smiled. "That's mine."

I looked up and gasped. 

A beautiful blend of pinks, yellows and purples flooded my mind. The soft tint to the clouds and the gentle smudge around the edges created a masterpiece of colour... but it was more than that. 

"You... you did that?"

"Yeah. Just after my last miscarriage."

I snapped my head back to her.

"I'm so sorry."

She nodded wistfully, fading back into a place I couldn't go. "Me too."

I was shocked. Such beauty from so much pain. I looked back at the pencils. Maybe... maybe I could do that too. 

"I'll take them," I said.

Her lips curved upwards. "Good decision." I paid, handing over two smooth bills and pushing them across the counter before I could change my mind. 

The shop door chimes once again as I walked onto the cold street a few moments later, the smooth tin tucked under my arm. 

Somehow, the icy winter's day didn't seem so cold anymore.

Author's Note

First draft - is the old man redunant? Also, is there a way I could improve the interal thoughts of the main character?