Chapter One: For All that is Wood

NO, I AM NOT PUTTING THE VOW ON HIATUS. I randomly thought of this plot and had to write it down. Show me some love and tell me if you like it.

The main character is thirteen now, but will get older.

Don't own the lion king (and pumba for that matter) or Ticonderoga.

I ran my fingers over the grooves in my pencil. I could trace out the letters that spelt my name. I did that to all my pencils. I had lost a million (okay, exaggeration) pencils to dusty corners and pencil thieves the past years, and so when I became the age I am, a mature thirteen years old, I came up with the brilliant idea to put my name on them so I would always know which pencils were mine. I had first thought of labeling them, or writing my name in marker, but there was a problem in those two options. Clever classmates could easily tear off the label or write over my name. So, I spent hours brainstorming. I kept awake until late into the night, sometimes I stayed up to around one a.m.! The solution came to me exactly five days and eight hours ago (give or take a few seconds).

I would get a sharp object and carve my name into my pencils! Yes, it would be slightly cruel and similar to branding cattle, but something drastic needed to be done. The moment that brilliant thought entered my brain, I wasted no time. That next morning, which was thankfully a Saturday, I took one of my prettiest pencils (it was light blue and had Pumba from the Lion King on it), sneakily swiped a sewing pin from my mother's room, and did the deed. I tattooed my pencil. I carved into my pencil. And as I was so creatively gifted, I took it a step further. I used my obscure, sometimes- used- as -a –noun middle name. My reasoning was that if some despicable person were to take one of my pencils, they would see my name on it and keep it out of my sight. If I used my middle name, a name I told to no one, they would never know who it really belonged to and I would be able to catch the thief!

"Elanora, what is the answer to number four?" My teacher's voice startled me as looked over her half moon spectacles.

I quickly looked down at my homework, embarrassed to be caught up in my thoughts. "Eight."

She nodded; a bit disappointed that she couldn't reprimand me for not paying attention. I smirked beneath the yellow body of my Ticonderoga.

"And, Cedric, number five?"

A boy to the left of me mumbled an answer, the lunch bell punctuating his words. I carefully tucked my pencils in the box, looked around for any suspicious classmates, and then stuffed it in my lunch bag. I don't take any chances.

My name is Elanora Gypsy George. I hate eggs but I love my pencils.

At gym class, I had to depart with my pencils. I tried to hide them in the waistband of my gym shorts one day, concealing them like James Bond would with his weapons, but within the first two steps I was being poked by the spiky points ( I like my pencils sharp). I was forced to come up with an alternative. Seeing as there were locker burglaries every day in my school, I decided to put them in a crevice that was a part of large oak tree. Since the gym is a separate building in my school, I have to take a minute long walk outside to get to it. Running along the edge of the side walk is a six foot tall tree, its branches shading our heads as people walked below it. On a rainy day, I had stopped by this tree to tie my shoe. When I straightened back up and wiped the hair from my eyes, I happened to peer right inside a hole that was made in the tree. I didn't realize the convenience of this hole until later, when the worry from placing my pencils in my gym locker became too much. I buried the pencils with dry leaves too, so if someone else were to happen to look into the hole, all they would see was the products of nature.

And so here I am, on September 8th, (a week after the pencils were put into a safe place) waiting for my death as the jocks chucked dodge balls at the heads of the less athletic students like me. As I saw a shiny red ball hurtling toward me, all I could think of was the thought of my pencils becoming dull and unloved if I died.

"Are you okay?"

I opened my eyes. I saw a mess of black in my vision and groaned.

A pair of arms helped me up. "I'm really sorry. Really. I don't know my own strength. I wasn't even aiming for your head!"

My head pounded and I mumbled to myself, "Oh for all that is wood!"

"Excuse me?" The guy's voice asked politely. I opened my eyes and glared at the boy in front of me. I didn't care that he had pretty blue eyes, and I didn't care that he looked genuinely sorry.

"Nothing." I snapped, and brushed off my sore butt. I just wanted to get back to my pencils and maybe sharpen them some more.

He reached out to touch my face, his fingers resting on my forehead. He pressed down and I yelped.

"What did you do that for?" I narrowed my gray eyes.

"You have a bruise."

"You didn't have to touch it." I was seething, and I guess the gym teacher decided to finally step in.

"Elanora, why don't you go get some ice."

I sent one more cold glare to the guy who hit me, and stomped off to the nurse.

One cold ice pack and a bump roughly five centimeters in diameter later, I ran back to the tree to get my pencils. I eagerly pushed away the leaves and picked up my lime green pencil case, wiping off the dirt from its shiny plastic.

I opened up the case, to ensure my pencils were still all safely tucked away, and bit back a scream. Placed on top of my tidy little case was a piece of paper. A piece of paper that was smeared with a disgusting red blob. I darted my eyes left and right, to see if there was anyone watching me (there wasn't), and focused on what was written.

Scrawled neatly to the left of the stain was a single word.


Warning bells were going off in my head. I had been found.

Do you like this at all? Eh? Meh?