• Aeryn loved the scent of freshly sharpened pencils. The aroma was subtle, yet the wood and lead mingled, pungent and soft and sweet. She held her favorite, a simple #2, letting it fall into its familiar place--a crook in the middle finger, only an inch from the nail bed, that glowed red and raw from the constant friction between skin and wood. She closed her eyes and inhaled, taking in her surroundings--the pencil shavings, fresh and strong, burned her nose. Basil and garlic danced with the yeasty warmth of freshly baked bread, taunting her from the kitchen. She caught a hint of lavender as her mother hurried past, and a much stronger whiff of musky cologne that could only belong to her brother. Her eyes flickered open again, and she glanced down at the milky smooth paper that rested beneath her left fingertips. She stroked the surface, caressing it as if it were her child. In a single fluid movement, she brought the pencil to the page, her hand guiding it with the grace of a ballerina. It made pirouettes across the snowy white, leaving behind only a trace of charcoal-gray, a shadow of the vision in her mind. Stroke by stroke, line by line, Aeryn's vision came alive.