The Crayon Box
Hi I’m the white crayon. There are lot of us crayons here at the kindergarten classroom. every single night, after the janitor finishes up his cleaning and turns out the light, we come alive. He drives away in his orange Durango and the lights come back on. We all come crawling out of the boxes and start talking and playing and such. I sometimes wish I was like red, or blue, or gold. They’re the popular crayons. My friends are black, brown, and pink. We’re friends because we’re the outcasts. Pink is taunted because she’s not technically a color. She’s a shade. Black because she’s dark, like a shadow and is the color of nothing. Brown, because he’s just a jumble of random colors all mashed up and mixed. Me, because I’m nothing. I’m literally nothing. I don’t show up when the little children draw with me. There used to be more white crayons, but the little children broke them to pieces and threw them at each other, they even ate one. Their taunting never ends. Over and over and over again. It never ends. Never. At the end of the night when the sun starts to rise, and the janitor arrives in his bright orange Durango, we all crawl back into the box. Me? I’m at the bottom. I guess this is the just life of the lonely white crayon.