Then one day a young man sat down beside the bench. The pencil thought this was most unusual because most people sat on the bench and not beside it. But the young man carried great pads of papers and set those on the bench instead as he stared up at the frolicking birds.
It was late in spring and most of the pencil's bird friends were furiously competing to impress their potential mates. The young man was enthralled by the sight of all the wild birds swooping and diving in ever more nimble aerial dances. So much so that he did not notice the approach of one of the pencil's older friends. A haggard old bird that was well past the age of lively acrobatic displays, but he still loved to sing for his old pencil friend just has he had every day of his life. Timidly, he approached the pencil nestled in the grass so near to the strange man. And steeling himself for this giant creature's reaction, the old bird sang the pencil's favorite lullaby. The same lullaby his father had taught him to sing to the pencil when he was a just a chick, just as his father had taught before that.
Startled from his reverie by the lovely tune, the young man looked down into the grass just in time to see the frightened old bird flutter away disappointedly. But there beneath the grass, the young artist spied the pencil just poking up out of the soil. He reached down and released the pencil from its grimy hiding spot. Taking a moment to wipe the years of dirt and sand from the pencil, the artist was astounded by the uniqueness of this pencil which the old bird had drawn to his attention.
It was long and elegant as many other pencils, except that it possessed the slightest curve at one end, barely perceptible to even his trained eye. As the artist placed his sinewy find in his hand, he was amazed at how natural the pencil felt cradled between his fingers. Other pencils had always caused his hand to cramp after a short while, with their rigidly straight lines. But this pencil settled into place easily, caressing his hand like an old lover.
Immediately the young artist began to draw on the stack of pages piled on the bench before him. Inspired, he drew great sweeping strokes, tracing the flights of the birds that had so enraptured him just moments before. He drew the sharp angled planes of the bench that once hid and protected his new treasure. He shaded and stippled and cross-hatched for hours on that park bench without tiring in the least. When every last page before him lay covered with new sketches and the sun eked out its last rays over the park, the artist finally stood, stretching his stiff legs.
The artist was ready to head home after feeling the lateness of the day in his sore legs and back. But he was surprised at the lack of pain in his drawing hand and wrist. Quite the contrary, his entire arm felt refreshed and invigorated by the hours he had spent over his designs. Thrilled with his new tool, the artist gathered up his papers and safely tucked the pencil into his breast pocket, the better to keep his new love close to his heart.
Meanwhile, the pencil felt both exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. It had never known that it could make such wild careening curves across a page. Nor that it could stretch out lines across the sheets, back and forth and back and forth again, without ever being lifted from the paper. Excited by the seemingly endless possibilities, the pencil snuggled into the artist's pocket, eager to explore these new vistas. If only after a short rest first.
But that rest proved to be short lived. For upon returning to the artist's home, the pencil was bombarded with an array of sights, sounds, and smells it had never beheld before. There seemed to be a great party afoot. There were beautiful women in brightly colored clothes with great plumes of feathers and sparkling jewelry adorning every limb. The pencil heard a constant, if irregular, tinkling of glasses clinked together in toast after toast, each interspersed with coy giggles and great bellowing laughter. A heady aroma of spiced meats, mulled wines, and sweet breads wafted through every room mixing with the ladies' heavy perfume which barely masked the carnal musk exuded by the people there.
Delighted by the sight of his jubilant friends, the artist dove into the revelry with the wide-eyed pencil still tucked neatly into his breast pocked. The evening stretched on and the party slowly quieted as two by two, couples paired off to disappear into one of the many private rooms down the hall. Until finally the artist was left alone with his own lady friend. It was then that the artist finally pulled the pencil from the safety of his coat pocket.
There stood on an easel before the artist the greatest sheet of canvas the pencil had ever seen. It was as tall as the artist himself and twice again as wide. The sheer blankness of the canvas stood before the artist as intimidating as its size. But armed with his new pencil, the artist rallied his spirits and calmed his fears. And there, just behind the easel, sat the beautiful lady from the party, reposed in her most natural of states.
The artist began sketching his model to the clean white sheet, unwearied despite the lateness of the hour. With trembling fingers, the artist traced the elegant curves of the woman's body onto his canvas. Over and over he sketched her form, stopping periodically to check the proportions, determined to capture only the perfections from her beauty.
As dawn broke, the artist paid the fine lady for her labors and finally collapsed from exhaustion into a heap on the floor, the pencil still clutched gently in his hand. There on the canvas stood the results of the artist's night's labor: a single perfectly sketched foot. The artist slept soundly, quite proud of the evenings accomplishments.
The next evening brought a new party, with new ladies, each more exquisite than the next. And again the artist employed the greatest of them all to serve as model for some small part of his Venus. Night after night the cycle continued without end as he worked himself to the brink of fatigue with the wonderful pencil that swept away his weariness.
Until finally the sketch was complete with each and every detail painstakingly laid out on the canvas. Finally satisfied with the drawing, the artist set aside his trusty pencil and pulled out his paints to give his creation the color and depth it deserved. Poking out from a tiny corner of the studio, the pencil watched in awe as the composition whose creation it had aided began to burst forth from the painting. The swirling curves became rosy cheeks, the shaded crevasses became shadowy depths, the angular strokes became sharpened corners.
The sun dawned early one midsummer morning as the artist put brush to canvas one final time. The artist's shoulders slumped from his Herculean efforts to complete the portrait. He knew without a doubt that he had finally completed the greatest work of his life. As he stepped back to admire his painting as a while and completed piece, the artist accidentally bumped into the table where the currently unused tools of his trade were stored. The pencil was jarred from the safety of its perch in the corner where it fell onto an unused palette knife waiting below. The trajectory of its fall was such that the pencil let out the humblest of screams as the knife etched an indelible gash along the entirety of its side.
Startled at his own clumsiness, the artist quickly spun around to survey the damage to his wares. He carefully inspected each brush handle, pen tip, and knife point as he returned them to their storage place while cleaning up his mess. Lastly he came upon his magic pencil which had enabled him to work through so many nights without fatigue thanks to her special shape.
Horrified by the violence wrought upon its gently sloping side, the artist tried not to look at the ugly scar which stretch along its length. But no matter how hard he squeezed his eyes shut, his hand could not escape the feel of the notched curve slicing into his fingers. His once flawless beauty was now marred beyond repair.
With tears pouring down his eyes, the artist carried his deformed pencil down the long hallway and into one of the many private rooms. He left it there on a table beside the bed in hopes that his lost pencil could at least enjoy the beauties offered by the building's nightly rituals.
There the pencil sat, appreciating the nightly parade of ladies, each lovelier than the last, reminding him of the wonderful nights it spent with the artist crafting a vision from the the most beautiful of the ladies. It knew that it was a very lucky pencil to have been chosen to create such vivid illustrations. And if it never got a chance to sketch another stroke, then it would consider itself to have lived a long and fruitful life.
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