The Pencil-Eating Classroom Goblin

Most people assume classroom chaos comes from students. Not true. I am the real culprit. I am the pencil-eating classroom goblin. Small, elusive, and terrifyingly precise, I lurk in the corners, the pencil cups, and sometimes between pages of worksheets, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

I arrive shortly after the students, invisible to the untrained eye, but no pencil escapes me. I nibble, gnaw, and occasionally swallow whole the unsuspecting wooden soldiers that lie in wait for their next essay, doodle, or arithmetic atrocity. A particularly sharp No. 2 pencil? Delicious. A pastel-colored novelty pencil? Slightly bland, but the novelty keeps me entertained. I have a refined palate, you see.

By 8:03 AM, the goblin senses tingling, I am already circling the teacher’s desk. Mrs. Bloom doesn’t notice me, of course. Humans are blind to my kind unless they’ve been cursed—or have accidentally dropped a pencil mid-attack. Students, however, are my unwitting assistants. Timmy chews on the eraser while I sneak a nibble off the opposite end. Jenny sharpens a pencil, and I swoop in before she even notices it’s gone. I am efficiency incarnate.

During math class, I linger near the back row, where pencils are most vulnerable. Algebra problems? Not my concern. But a perfectly balanced mechanical pencil with shiny silver accents? My obsession. I savor the gentle click of the lead, the faint smell of wood shavings, and, of course, the inevitable moment when a human realizes their pencil has “walked away.” That’s when the panic sets in—and oh, how delicious panic is.

Art class is pure chaos, and I thrive. Crayons, colored pencils, markers—they all present a buffet. I must admit, markers are tricky; their caps are dangerous, their ink slightly acidic, but I am fearless. I feast, I dart, I vanish into the shadows. Sometimes, when students aren’t looking, I arrange the pencils in little patterns—a tribute to the artistry I secretly admire but can never fully partake in.

The goblin’s life is not without challenges. Whiteboards are terrible traps, paper airplanes almost hit me, and glue bottles? Do not even ask. I’ve survived sticky situations, glue floods, and the occasional paper clip ambush. But nothing—absolutely nothing—beats the thrill of a perfectly timed pencil disappearance. By 2:45 PM, the humans are tired, slightly frazzled, and my work is done. I return to my hiding spot, tiny belly full, content in my dominion.

I am more than a nuisance. I am a lesson in patience. I teach children resilience (“Where did my pencil go?”), adaptability (“Time to borrow another one!”), and subtle acceptance of life’s small mysteries. Some might see me as chaos incarnate, but I am… cultured. Precise. Elegant. A small, furry reminder that life is never entirely under control.

When the last student leaves and the classroom quiets, I curl up in a forgotten pencil cup, dreaming of the next day’s adventures. I am the unsung hero—or villain—of the classroom, the guardian of mystery, the one who makes every student double-check their supplies. And I will be back tomorrow, silently feasting, plotting, and reminding everyone that pencils, like magic, have a life of their own.

✨ If this peek into the secret life of a pencil-eating classroom goblin made you laugh, sparked your imagination, or reminded you of the hidden chaos in your own classrooms, I’d be so grateful if you considered supporting my writing here on Vocal. Even a small donation helps me continue sharing stories, humor, and reflections on the tiny creatures—real or imagined—that make life just a little more unpredictable. Thank you for reading, and watch your pencils… they never know who’s watching.