The Black Toothpick of God
An essay by Chad Schomber
There’s a moment just before a pencil breaks that you can feel. A soft give. Like a knee buckling before it hits gravel. You don’t always notice it in time. But the Ticonderoga #2, black casing, knows. That pencil doesn’t snap. It grits. It groans. It bears the pressure of generations of math tests and passive-aggressive grocery lists and phone numbers …
