Fiction Friday - 14 September 2007
This Week's Theme: Write a story, poem, or essay from the point of view of an inanimate object.
It's very dark in here. At least he remembered to put me back in my case this time. Probably only because he didn't want me to make a mess. Not that I could, even if I wanted to. He's forgotten to fill me again, but why would he remember? He hasn't used me in months, and on those odd, wonderful moments that he rediscovers me, he shakes his head in frustration and grumbles that I don't work.
Then I'm discarded again. Obsolete they say. Replaced by technical advancments. He sits with that titanium monstrosity, tapping away, sending out electronic thoughts and digital emotions. None of them real, none of them taken any time over. There's no art there, no craft. You make a mistake, you tap-tap-tap and it's gone. With me though... the mistake is indelible. Even if you cross it out, there's still a reminder of your mistakes, like a scar on otherwise pristine skin.
That's what made it fun though. Furious scribbling, the smudges, that dull ache in the hand that let you know you done a real day's work. And the works we produced. Essays, exams, flights of fancy. Tender moments of love expressed on parchment.
Now it's an e-mail instead of a letter. A blog instead of a journal. A computer instead of me.
A dry nib. An empty reservoir. Bursting with potential, eager to help him give expression to his heart and soul.
Forgotten at the bottom of his bag.
Then I'm discarded again. Obsolete they say. Replaced by technical advancments. He sits with that titanium monstrosity, tapping away, sending out electronic thoughts and digital emotions. None of them real, none of them taken any time over. There's no art there, no craft. You make a mistake, you tap-tap-tap and it's gone. With me though... the mistake is indelible. Even if you cross it out, there's still a reminder of your mistakes, like a scar on otherwise pristine skin.
That's what made it fun though. Furious scribbling, the smudges, that dull ache in the hand that let you know you done a real day's work. And the works we produced. Essays, exams, flights of fancy. Tender moments of love expressed on parchment.
Now it's an e-mail instead of a letter. A blog instead of a journal. A computer instead of me.
A dry nib. An empty reservoir. Bursting with potential, eager to help him give expression to his heart and soul.
Forgotten at the bottom of his bag.
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