Whatever I Draw
by Eliza May
Although it was painfully loud as the Pens began their charge, when they reached the line of Pencils, it grew deafening. Tullier had no hope for his life, and fought with a cold, systematic deadliness. He was almost in a meditative state, with the world slowing down around him and the noise of the battle receding into the background. Random thoughts passed into his mind and back out again, and he vaguely wondered what it would be like after he died.
Then, dully, as if coming from a long distance, he noticed a change. The crowd pressing about him was thinning. Slowly, he emerged from his trance and with a shock, realized that the Pencils were retreating, running for their lives. Only a few were still standing and fighting, himself one of them. The fear of cowardice never even entered his mind. He saw with perfect clarity the two options: die a rather pointless death, or run. With desperation, as the panic of being left behind swept over him, he dispatched his current attacker with a punch in the stomach and a kick directly below. Then, dodging several Pens, he sprinted in the direction of the remaining Pencils.
The fear of death enabled the Pencils to outrun their enemies; terror made them swift and strong. Some were able to leap into their parked vehicles, leaving others screaming after them. Many of those screams were swiftly cut short. Everyone else, Tullier included, simply ran. Of course, the Pens chased them. The Pencils would quickly dispatch of those unlucky Pens who caught up to them, hardly slowing in their desperation. Where they were headed, Tullier doubted if anyone knew.
After several minutes, Tullier’s already worn-out body was completely exhausted. His limbs ceased to function on their own, and it was only his will and hunted-animal instinct that kept him going. Finally, though, he stumbled, causing him not only to slow his running, but also his thinking. A flash of inspiration lighted his mind, and stopping altogether, he drew out his pencil. His hands, shaking with adrenaline, roughly scribbled the first thing that came to mind: a car, a simple car, like any young child would draw.
“What I have drawn, may it be made real!” he gasped. A shiny black sports car appeared in the sand. Tullier couldn’t help but grin. It definitely wasn’t a used red Honda. Jumping into the driver’s seat, he was about to start the ignition when he noticed the other fugitives. He forced himself to calm down, fighting against the urge to simply drive away, never looking back. One of the Pencils reached the car and didn’t hesitate, but leaped directly into the passenger seat.
“Go! Go!” he screamed, trying to start the car himself.
Disgusted, Tullier slapped the man’s hand away. “No!” he exclaimed. “I’ll take as many as I can.” Several more Pencils piled in. As he waited for a couple of stragglers, Tullier sketched several more vehicles, all of which appeared neatly in the dry Wastelands. Some were sports cars like his own and others not, but they all were ready to drive, and were quickly put to use by the fleeing Pencils.
Then the wave of pursuing Pens reached them, and began an effort to break into the car. Urged by the frantic pleas of the Pencils in the vehicle, Tullier finally started the car and sped away. They quickly distanced themselves from the Pens, until the only evidence left of their attackers was a cloud of dust behind them.