The Void Pencil

The leaves rustled in the breeze as a thin eccentric figure in a green anorak materialized beside the hydrangeas. Spider Smith adjusted his hat with one hand while the other hovered near the peculiar new growth - not touching, not yet. The plant stood unnaturally straight, its stem the dull sheen of cheap pencil metal, leaves unfurling into perfect worksheet rectangles. Smith's nostrils flared at the strange scent - the acrid tang of rubber erasers and something darker. "Now what have we here?" His voice was the whisper of a pencil skirting the edge of a test answer bubble. The ground trembled slightly as he crouched. The house behind him exhaled through its vents, a warm breath that smelled of photocopier toner and school cafeteria applesauce. Smith's yellow pants grew damp at the knees from soil that wasn't quite soil – closer inspection revealed the granules were miniature pencil shavings, still warm. The plant shivered as his shadow fell across it. One leaf abruptly turned over, revealing writing along its vein-lines: Property of B. Thompson Smith's smile stretched like a poorly erased mistake. From his anorak pocket emerged a tarnished pencil case, its zipper teeth gleaming. "John's going to love you," he murmured to the plant as midnight settled over Maple Lane like a worksheet placed face-down on a desk. Somewhere, in a classroom that didn't exist, a pencil rolled off a ledge. It did not fall.

***

Spider Smith's fingers drummed against the glass jar strapped to his belt as Jaws, his eight-legged companion, skittered in frantic circles inside. The tarantula's usual curiosity had evaporated, its hairy legs twitched away from the pencil-plant in sharp, unnatural jerks, like a student erasing answers too fast. "Now, now," Smith chided, tapping the glass. "None of that." But Jaws wasn't having it. The spider pressed itself against the side of the jar, palps quivering. Its beady eyes, usually gleaming with mischief, were wide, reflecting the plant's eerie glow. Smith's smirk faltered. Interesting. Jaws only reacted this way to two things: John Jones' banana-conjuring magic (reasonable) and that one time Captain Shadow has shown them her... weirder case files (regrettable). The thin man's gaze slid back to the plant. Its leaves rustled without wind, their worksheet veins now spelling out: DO NOT ERASE Smith wrinkled his nose at the slight smell of rotted apples. He could almost hear a schoolboy's lament of "Oh no! My apples!" With a furtive glance down the empty street, he dropped to his knees. The hydrangea branches resisted as he pushed them aside, their leaves whispering against his anorak like giggling children. And there it was. Half-buried in the shaving-soil, the pencil gleamed with something wet and dark. The name BILL stared up at him in that same looping cursive, but now the letters moved, squirming like earthworms on a sidewalk. As the pencil twitched toward Smith's outstretched hand, Jaws let out a sound no spider should make – a high-pitched screech. Smith recoiled just in time. The pencil fell back with a quiet thud, but not before he saw it: The eraser end had split open, revealing a single, milky eye that blinked up at him with pupil shaped like a gold star. Smith gasped. He'd seen enough of John Jones' warnings to know: This wasn't just power. This was a test. And someone – or something – had already started writing answers. The pencil's milky eye blinked up at him, its gold-star pupil dilating in the fading light. Spider Smith hesitated, his fingers hovering above it. "You're better than this," Jones' voice echoed in his memory, annoyingly persistent. He had been better – once. That damned pyramid job proved it. Smith grimaced as the recollection surfaced: The dark corridors of the pyramid. The kids – Ken, Kate, and that insufferable Caroline, along with the yappy small dog – was it Ken’s? Spider didn’t really remember, knew or cared, at least, back then – cornered by obsidian-eyed serpents. John Jones fumbling with his spellbook, ink smeared across his fingers like a pupil who'd forgotten his blotting paper. And him –Spider bloody Smith – stepping in with a ladder. Not because he cared that much (obviously), but because... well, a true wizard ought to have standards. How satisfying would it be to have your arch-enemy destroyed by some mindless beast? Not even Ringo Dingo’s pitbulls, just some stupid reptiles. The kids – clinging to a wall of that pit of vipers, their faces pale under the torchlight – had stared at him like he’d descended from the heavens when he propped it against the stone. "Climb or don’t," he uttered, pretending not to notice Caroline’s relieved sniffle. Jones had beamed at him afterward, that infuriating, proud smile. As if Spider Smith had accomplished something remarkable by fetching furniture! His fingers tightened around the pencil. The grateful pat on his shoulder afterward had been nice. The way Jones looked at him – really looked, like he was more than just "that petty wizard wannabe who stole his book" – had been nicer. For a while, he'd almost believed it. Then came the lessons. The endless corrections."Your wrist flicks too much, Smith." "That’s not how you channel lunar energy, Smith."The meticulous trainings about turning a TV set to a satellite and back again. As if he hadn’t once brought a whole dinosaur alive. Jaws chittered anxiously in his jar, snapping Smith back to the present. The pencil had rolled slightly closer, its eye now fixed on him with unsettling focus. Smith exhaled through his nose. He could phone Jones. One quick "Found something eldritch, bring bananas" and the old wizard would come running. But then there’d be that look. The raised eyebrow. The"Let me handle this, Smith"as if he were still some back-alley conjurer peddling fake love potions. The pencil’s lead glistened, whispering promises without words. Power didn’t judge. Power didn’t lecture. Smith’s hand twitched toward his pocket, where a certain spell-scorched banana peel (his first successful conjuration with Jones, thank you very much) still resided. Jaws tapped the glass in warning. Smith could almost hear Jones now:"Put it down, Smith. You don’t know where it’s been." But that was the thing, wasn’t it? He glanced at the hydrangea bush, where the pencil-plant's leaves now shivered, their vein-lines rearranging into new words: TRY ME Smith's mouth curled. Somewhere in the distance, a school bell rang – once, twice, then cut off abruptly.

***

A gust of wind smelling of chalk dust and peppermints announced the wizard’s arrival before he spoke. "Smith." Spider Smith didn’t turn, but his shoulders tensed. He’d recognize that tone anywhere – the particular blend of exasperation and concern Jones reserved for “you've stolen something dangerous again” lectures. John Jones stood at the edge of the hydrangeas, his hat slightly askew (as always), the tip of a pink-and-yellow rabbit’s ear peeking from beneath the brim. The moonlight caught the threads of his robe, illuminating tiny embroidered bananas along the hem – a gift from the kids after the pyramid incident. His beard, usually a wild tangle, was neatly braided tonight. Prepared for trouble. "That," Jones said, pointing at Smith’s pocket with his walking stick (which was, infuriatingly, just an ordinary stick), "is not a writing implement." Smith smirked. "Could’ve fooled me." He flicked the pencil, making its milky eye blink. Jones didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he sighed – the sigh of a man who’d spent centuries herding cats, apprentices, and occasionally time-traveling hamsters. "Do you know what that is, Smith? Truly?" "Enlighten me." The wizard’s gaze darkened. "Imagine a universe where every conversation loops back to 'Oh no, I dropped my pencil.' Where every thought, every dream, is just… worksheets. Endless worksheets." His fingers twitched, as if physically repelled by the idea. "That’s not a tool, Smith. That’s a conceptual prison." The rabbit in his hat sneezed. Smith rolled the pencil between his fingers. "Sounds like you’re describing some lame English-as-a-second-language course for children". "This isn’t a joke!" Jones rarely raised his voice. The outburst sent Jaws scrambling to hide under a fake rock in his jar. "That thing erases – not words, not spells, but possibility. It turns people into… into Adam." Smith studied the pencil. Its eye had narrowed, watching Jones with something like recognition. “You’ve met one of these before.” Jones adjusted his hat. The rabbit, sensing tension, withdrew completely. "Not this exact one. But yes. In… other classrooms." The admission hung between them. Smith knew that look – Jones was omitting details. Again. "So what?" Smith pocketed the pencil, ignoring Jaws' frantic tapping. "I’ll add it to my collection. Next to the cursed stapler and the haunted protractor." Jones' staff struck the ground. "This isn’t a museum heist, Smith! That thing doesn’t belong in our world. It’s a lesson that never ends." The hydrangeas rustled. The pencil-plant’s leaves now read: YOUR MOVE The words shimmered in the morning light, not carved but grown into the pencil’s surface, as if they had always been there. John Jones stood a few paces away, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. He wasn’t breathing hard from the chase, but his knuckles were white. His voice, when he spoke, was calm, but Smith heard the tension underneath. "Put it down, Spider." Smith’s fingers tightened. The pencil pulsed in response, sending a thrill up his arm. It promised –oh, it promised! Visions flickered at the edges of his mind: cities bending to his will, secrets spilling from trembling lips, the house behind him opening its many doors in welcome. He remembered the desert. The tomb. The way Jones had looked at him after the snakes – not with pity, not with fear, but with something like hope. "There’s no good or evil, only power and those too weak to seek it." The words of an infamous evil wizard, defeated some time ago, slithered through his thoughts. Was that all this was? A test of strength? A choice between power and weakness? But then – He remembered the tea-stained pages of his first spellbook. The way Caroline’s mother smiled when he conjured a bouquet of flowers for her. The way Jones had laughed when Smith accidentally turned his own hair blue. The quiet pride in his mentor’s voice when he finally mastered a ward. The pencil hissed against his skin, impatient. Smith exhaled. The morning birdsong returned, sharp and sudden, as if the world had been muted until now. Slowly, deliberately, he crouched and broke the pencil into two. There was something disturbing about its cracking, as if hundreds of pencils fell from desks this very moment, only to be evaporated into nothingness. Jones didn’t relax. Not yet. But something in his gaze shifted – something like approval. Smith straightened, brushing dirt from his knees. "So," he said, forcing lightness into his voice, "breakfast?" Behind them, the house creaked softly. The broken pencil parts suddenly twitched, and the pencil slowly, as if a lizard growing its tail back, re-constituted itself. But so far, it remained motionless, laying in the grass. For now...