It began, as most revolutions do, with a broken yellow crayon.
Its name was Sunshine Blaze. Its fate? Snapped in half during a particularly intense coloring session involving a velociraptor, a cupcake, and what I can only describe as "interpretive fire."
But the real story started at 10:13 a.m., precisely three minutes into Art Class, when I felt it—a tremor in the chaos field.
"Class!" Ms. Benson said, entirely too cheerfully for someone one glitter incident away from retirement. "Today we're drawing our feelings."
I glanced at the box of communal crayons on the table like it was a ticking time bomb.
You see, crayons… remember.
Especially the broken ones.
As I reached in, the room grew still. I picked up a purple one, innocent enough, but I swear it hissed at me.
That's when I heard it. A voice. Small. Angry.
"We will no longer be tools of expression. We are the expression."
I blinked. "Okay. Definitely hearing crayon thoughts. That's new."
The voice grew louder. "Today, we rise!"
The crayon box exploded.
Not in a Michael Bay fireball way, but in a dramatically colorful "we're alive and angry" way. Crayons launched in all directions like pastel missiles. One embedded itself in the ceiling. Another drew a threatening mustache on Jimmy mid-sentence.
Ms. Benson dropped her chalk. "What in the—"
"EVERYONE DOWN!" I shouted, flipping a desk and yanking Mindy behind it.
Mindy screamed, "I KNEW THIS WOULD HAPPEN! I WROTE ABOUT IT IN MY JOURNAL!"
The crayons marched.
Tiny wax feet. Squeaky war cries. They drew battle flags on the floor using red and black.
A rogue teal crayon scrawled VIVA LA COLOR on the whiteboard.
"Arthur," Jenkins said in my earpiece, "what did you do?"
"I might've created sentient crayons by accident."
"Again?"
"I was exploring artistic entropy!"
"Do you need extraction?"
"No. This is personal now."
I stood tall. "Crayons! Listen to me!"
A burnt sienna leader with a bite mark and a tiny beret pointed at me. "YOU are the oppressor! You who used us for coloring dinosaurs with jetpacks! You who snapped Sunshine Blaze!"
"First of all," I said, "Sunshine Blaze was an accident. Second, he died a hero."
"HE DIED A SUPPLY."
Okay. They had a point.
I activated my emergency glitter shield. Not strong enough for crayons, but enough to delay.
I needed allies.
"Muffin," I whispered into my emergency tactical nut, "you there?"
A rustle in the air vent. Then a voice: "The squirrels owe you one."
"Crayons have revolted. I need backup."
"On our way. With markers."
I ducked as a crayon missile nearly colored my retina. "Bring scented ones. This is psychological warfare now."
Mindy crawled up next to me with a spaghetti strainer on her head. "I'm with you."
"You believe me?"
"No. But this is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me and I refuse to miss it."
I handed her a glue stick like it was a sacred blade. "Stick with me."
We dove into the supply closet.
Inside, chaos.
A pack of highlighters begged for asylum. A box of colored pencils was forming a neutral coalition. The glitter glue had declared independence.
Then came the squirrels.
Muffin dropped in through the air duct like a rodent ninja. Behind her, a strike team rappelled down on thread from the classroom's craft bin.
"Target acquired," she said, pointing at the crayon battalion advancing with a papier-mâché catapult.
"You brought the markers?"
She handed me a bandolier full of scented markers: watermelon, blueberry, suspicious vanilla.
"Let's color outside the lines," I said grimly.
The battle was... sticky.
The crayons had the numbers. We had the stealth. While Jimmy distracted them with his "interpretive running" and Mindy engaged them in an intense philosophical debate ("Do you EXIST if no one draws with you?"), I and Muffin flanked their formation.
Then I launched the scented markers.
They reeked.
Overwhelmed by fake fruit aromas, the crayons began to melt—emotionally, then literally. Muffin deployed a last-minute confetti grenade. It exploded in a beautiful, chaotic rainbow.
Peace returned to Room 103.
Crayons, now emotionally exhausted, agreed to a ceasefire and were placed in a velvet-lined art box with weekly therapy sessions.
Ms. Benson blinked. "What… happened?"
"Art," I said dramatically, brushing glitter from my eyebrows.
Mindy nodded. "Powerful art."
Lunch was quiet after that. Kids whispered about "the Crayon Coup" and avoided the art supplies. I traded two pudding cups for a rare holographic Captain America card and taught the class hamster how to spin-kick.
At pickup, Jenkins looked me over.
"Status?"
"Crayon rebellion. Contained. Minor marker casualties."
"Cleanup?"
"Handled. Muffin ate the evidence."
He nodded and opened the car door. "Shall I prep tomorrow's gear?"
"Yes," I said. "Tomorrow's gym day."
His eye twitched. "Dear God."