Just toying around with what if Pencils were like cigars. What if you Smoked words onto the page. And what would different pencils produce when smoked? Would different pencils be smoked depending on the demographic?

I DO NOT CONDONE SMOKING, IT IS A FILTHY HABIT, this is just toying with a fantastical and wild idea.

The Writer’s Smoking Room

The mechanical pencil’s tip glowed red, as thin words curled from its nib. The words circled in the air,

In conclusion, this paper’s ideology focuses on the really bad.  The smoker’s lips exhaled a bunch of words onto the page in front of him.

Therefore you must see reason in light of the struggles of- And the sheer quantity of smokey words meant the paper was almost done. The mechanical pencil’s fire ran out, and the writer slipped in a refill pack, clicked the eraser once, and her final paragraph was completed.

Across the room in a padded leather arm chair, a gruff old man smoked a number two pencil, often smoked by men of his age. There was a veritable cloud of words floating around him.

In the summer of 1973 – “Good gravy, Marge!” – My first Pulitzer was – Terrible business, the whole affair – Pongo, was the first dog I ever owned. 

He waved a piece of paper in the air, attempting to collect the words before they disappeared. He finished the pencil and plucked the metal end and eraser out of his mouth. Opening a new pack of number twos, he lit the pre-sharpened graphite and began to puff away.

A man sitting at a drafting table, in a corner, smoked a carpenter’s pencil. Numbers and lines floated around him, white and sketchy as he waved a large roll of paper around, collecting each number.

An artist blew a nearly black, continual stream of smoke towards a large sketchbook. The dark sketching pencil, just a nub in her mouth. She surveyed her work, frowned, ripped it out of the sketchbook, took a deep breath, and began the process anew.

A poor writer smoked pencils commonly given to children (children wrote by hand, and these pencils were hard to catch alight), with bright flowers, Superheroes, and various patterns on them. He grimaced as he surveyed the words around him,

Dorothy misspeled teh word tomorow, an sh coulnd’t hope to enter teh spelin be. 

He sighed and threw his pencil down, nearly lighting his page on fire. These cheap pencils never spelled very well.

I surveyed the room and laughed to myself. Wouldn’t be nice if this wasn’t in my head. A fantasy world where you just had to think and the words would float around you. The world in which you draw with a breath, or plan a building in a puff. I considered to myself the health side-effects and laughed, I can do what I want. But one thing floats in my mind.

Words of good will and intention strengthen the brain of the author and reader. As do art and plans. But words of ill humor, hate, and destruction poison the minds of the author, and the reader. And the same goes for other mediums. I chuckled to myself yet again as I wrote these words on my screen. Wouldn’t it be funny if pencils could be smoked, and our words float around us like a screen?