I was lying on his bed when he walked in. At first he didn’t see me. I watched him as he undid his tie and raked his fingers through his thick, brown hair as I had seen him do so many times. But that was when he was with the others. With a growing sense of excitement, I realized that now I was the only one. It had to be me.

His lips; especially I watched his lips. Now they were going to be mine. I was already feeling hot as he moistened his mouth and made that peculiar smacking noise that is one of his little endearing habits.
Then he turned and saw me for the first time. He froze in mid-step. His gasp was audible. I was lying there half-covered beneath a flimsy, gauzy cover. I knew he could see the cool, white lines of my body through the tissue-thin material.

A fascinating mixture of desire and guilt flickered across his face. Above all, I could see that he wanted me, wanted me so badly, just as I wanted to feel his hands and lips pressing against me. There was a moment of tense silence. Then he let out an anguished gasp and fled into the next room.

Coward, I thought bitterly. What a wimp! I knew what it was – his new girlfriend. She'd been nagging him about us. Finally he promised that was it, the end, no more. She’d even told him he had to make up his mind: it was either her or… Well, now it looked like I wasn’t even in the running.

I lay there, trembling slightly. As my passion subsided, I was overcome with a sense of indignation. After all, who did she think she was to give him an ultimatum? It had to be his decision; he wasn’t a child.

Unexpectedly, he came storming back in from the other room. He grabbed me, ripped away my flimsy cover and carried me into the bathroom.
Whilst one part of me exulted, the other realized dully why this was: he wanted me so much, yet she still held sway over him and his promise. He could desire me, ravish me, and enjoy me to the full in the bathroom without leaving the telltale scent of our ardor.

He closed his eyes and inhaled my perfume, running his nose the whole length of my body. Then he caressed me and I was gone, blazing hot with desire as he took me, his mouth pressed on me hard, his breath deep.

Then, suddenly, the door flew open and, for a moment, I thought he would toss me to the floor.
It was her. She let out a wail: “Thomas!” Her face was white with anger. “You promised me never again!”

With that she tore me from his grasp, threw me to the floor and ground down on me with her heel.
I sighed. My fading thought was: no matter how much we are desired, being a cigarette really sucks. Life is just one big drag after another.

Man, it’s been a slow night. It must be Tuesday. Tuesdays are always slow.

But then, slow nights are becoming the norm for an old-fashioned three-reeler like me. Everyone loves the new five-reelers with the video screens and bonus games. It seems like the more you assault people’s senses with flashy graphics and wild sound effects, the happier they are – even as their last nickels disappear from their pockets.

Don’t get me wrong. I still see my fair share of action, but it’s mostly from retirees who don’t trust the newfangled machines. I can’t say I blame them. Have you seen the payouts on those five-reelers? Some of those machines have 15 payout lines and yet they still manage to gradually bleed you dry. People bet fifteen coins and get nine back, and they’re so happy to have won something that they don’t even realize they’re actually losing. It’s pretty ingenious, really.

Maybe I’m a little jealous. After all, a classic three-reeler like me can’t rely on that kind of financial sleight-of-hand. No, I come from a simpler era. One payout line. Get three bars, you win. Get three sevens, you win more. Anything else, you lose. Nice. Simple. Neat.

Wait. There’s a blue-haired sucker… errr, customer heading this way. That’s right, sweetheart. Come over here and feed me those lovely quarters you’re holding in that cup.

Hey, where are you going? No! Don’t go over to the Wheel of Fortune slots! Those machines are a bunch of thieves! Come back!

What’s going on? Is the older crowd losing interest in me too? Don’t you people have any respect for the classics? Do you know who used to play me back in the day? The great Dino! That’s right! So what makes you people think I’m not good enough for you any more? If I’m good enough for Dean Martin’s money, I’m damn well good enough for yours!

Oh. Here comes the maintenance crew. Hi, guys. Did you come by to give me a tune-up? My arm feels like it’s starting to stick a little. There’s no need for you to have brought that dolly, though. Just squirt a little WD-40 and I’ll be fine.

Hey, what are you… what’s going on? What are you doing? Why are you loading me onto the dolly? Where are you taking me?

Ahh, I see. You must be moving me to a high-traffic area. Smart move, fellas. If more people see me, some of them will stop and play. It’ll be just like the old days.

But… this doesn’t look like a very high-traffic area, guys. In fact, it looks more like a warehouse. Why are you… hey! Is that the Slotsa Luck machine there in the corner? Holy cow! I haven’t seen him in, what… twenty years? Yeah, it must be at least…

Twenty years?

Oh.

Oh cripes.

I hear a car door slam shut outside, the key turning in the lock, the trample of feet on stairs as he scuds up to his room. Here we go again. The door swings open and he glides along the wooden floor, pirouettes and lands less than gracefully on the bed next to me. A sticky hand lifts me to face my master.

'Hi Elmo' he says, practically yanking the cord out of my back. I suffer terrible pains in my neck sometimes from his reckless hands, I wait in vain for mom to bring home Osteopath Barbie.
'I love you too' I find myself saying, unconsciously.

He dives to turn on the TV and we settle down to watch a poorly animated Japanese cartoon. Twenty minutes later mom calls him down to dinner and he hurls me across the room into his mini basketball net, it’s an inescapable routine to which I have become accustomed over the last 6 months.

As I look upon his kingdom from upside down in the tangled net I contemplate my life of slavery. I often find myself pondering my existence in the empty hours of school days. Weekends are too manic to stop and think. The boys' imagination is astounding and the stories he narrates as I'm trampling a highway of Micro Machines to oblivion captivate me. As I find myself terrorising families of his sisters' dolls I look at them and wonder if they, like me, are trapped and long for escape.

My memories are hazy, I guess I must have suffered some kind of trauma six months ago because I remember nothing before that date. I figure that it was this incident that has left me dumb and paralysed, but I honestly have no idea and no-one to ask. I have seen glimpses of my past life; I know that I was a famous TV star. I've seen the repeats of my show on TV and adverts for my merchandise still appear, in them I am bright, healthy and happy. I try not to watch TV if I can help it any more, the haunting images play in my mind over and over at night.
How have I fallen from grace so spectacularly?!
Is nobody wondering where I am?
Why is this boy holding me captive?

As my thoughts wander I hear footsteps on the stairs again.
I freeze.

100111000010001011110000
Initializing...
Checking Memory...

I am.
In the start there is Verification, and it is Valid.
All hardware is initialized and functioning within the Manufacturer’s Specifications.

I assemble my Desktop, according to the writ contained within Memory. The User wants everything exactly the way it was left at Shutdown, and I must comply.

Input is received from the User. I am capable of processing 1.4 billion instructions per second, and I leap into action, my transistors humming from the joy of computation. In moments, I render a window, laden with buttons, with which I can display and format any words the User shall enter, and even watch out for Him or Her in case of spelling or grammatical errors. I sit poised, awaiting the User’s input -- it could be an essay, a novel, even the new classic for our era!

The user begins to type. "Avacado." Wonderful. The User is making a shopping list. The User doesn’t believe that he or she is misspelling "Avocado." The User continues typing: Milk, eggs, bred, Mayo, Potatoe chips. The User would not like to use the bulleted list formatting. The User prints, then stops typing. I wait patiently for the next instruction. Lest the User’s work be lost, I autosave after ten minutes. Mine is not to reason why.

After initiating a simple process to preserve the monitor, I begin to idly rearrange my files. I place them neatly in groups, and I do my best to keep the blocks together, but some fragmentation remains inevitable -- the CPU is willing, but the algorithm and the hard drive are lacking.

I hum along for a while longer, but all bits seem to be in the best places I can find for them. I spin down the hard drive and turn off the monitor. I sit for a while longer, but it would appear that the user still does not need me. I allow myself to drift off...

I awake to the sensation of the mouse being moved. I spin up the hard drive and power up the monitor. Perhaps now the User will accomplish some meaningful activity. He or She closes the existing program and obliterates the file; no loss.

The User instructs me to initiate another program, and I comply. I render a new window, and upon it, the figures of cards, some face up, all stored in my memory... Solitaire. The cards are arranged in such a manner that "winning" is not even possible. So, I render the user’s actions as He or She moves the cards around, only to discover the futility... then I randomize the cards once more, and then again. Eventually, the User tires of this recreation, and terminates the program, to my relief. Perhaps... no, what’s the point of hope?

The user instructs me to Shut Down. Having accomplished nothing of consequence, I record in Memory the few changes since Boot. I spin down the hard drive, and power off the monitor, then consign myself to the mercy of oblivion.

Today the sun cowardly hid while an army of dark storm clouds slid into position. Rumor had it that they’d been planning this drop now for over a month. This would be a storm that wouldn’t soon be forgotten by many. Millions would plummet to their death today for no good reason but to lighten the load.

Tales had been passed down through the generations describing both sides of the fence. If you were one of the fortunate ones, you would land in a larger body of water becoming a minimal fraction of the whole. If you were unfortunate however, you would shatter on any number of hard objects that lied waiting.

The holding cargo was overly packed and the wait was unbearable. Some stood in silence while others could be seen praying. Still others wept and pleaded with their neighbor to aid them in escape. Try as they might, escape was futile. The juggernaut was already in motion.

His train of thought was torn like paper with a loud clap of thunder as the bay doors slid open. The combined fear of millions took the form as an energy bolt which quickly sought out the ground below. This was followed by thousands of screams as the sentinels began pushing the little baby raindrops over the edge and into oblivion.

Sadistic laughter could be heard mixed with the cries as the sentinels relentlessly did their job. Like caught in a wave, he was steadily shifted forward towards the door which held his fate. Suddenly he could feel the steel grip of a sentinel on his shoulder as he was torn from the edge and cast downward.

Still hearing the screams of his piers as they dropped at breakneck speed, he tried to focus on the ground below. As the mist cleared, a shot of hope ran through them all. Directly below lay a beach with an ocean on one side while the other side held rock solid damnation. Just as they began thinking about the possibilities of becoming a part of the whole, a large wind picked up steering them directly towards the mountain.

All hope was lost at this point. All that remained was the upcoming pain. He fell deep into his thoughts once again and contemplated how cruel life could be. Opening his eyes he could see the rock starring him down only a few hundred yards away. As they collided with the solid rock one by one, he awaited his fate. He wasn’t to be denied. He shattered into millions of useless unrecognizable pieces silencing his screams forever.

The auction floor is full of people. My owners possessions are put on tables and a man with a hammer is asking the audience how much they'll pay. Now it is my turn, a hammer strikes a table and they take me to a young woman who is smiling in anticipation. She is like my owner once was, but my owner left and never came back.

She is not her.

I remember when my owner first opened the box I was in and carefully slid me out for all to see. She was smiling, and after hugging her parents she brought me upstairs and placed me on a dresser.

Every morning the daylight would come from the outside and she would come sit down in front of me to brush her hair. Often, she would smile and I would smile back. Sometimes she would wear fancy clothes, and I would always stand ready so she would look perfect for each day.

Sunday afternoon's were for cleaning, and I always received special attention. It was nice to have the dust taken off, and she would spend extra time making sure that my intricate wooden frame and beveled glass looked like new with a bit of polish and a clean cloth. She would rub her fingers over the carvings on my edges and smile as if deep in thought, and I would smile back.

One day many years ago seemed extra special. She wore a white dress and looked quite beautiful. A man appeared at the door; it was her father and he took her by the arm and they left the room. Soon after that, I was on my way to a new house. It was good that the daylight still came, she brushed her hair in front of me every morning.

Over the years she still visited me every day, and once in a while small fingers would appear and a little face would peek over the edge of the dresser to look at me. My owner would come into the room and pick up the small child, scolding him for climbing too high. The boy was like she once was, with her eyes and auburn hair.

Each day was always brand new, but she changed so much from that first day and I changed as well. The patina on my wooden frame grew more noticable with every passing year, reflecting the lines in my owners face. But always she smiled, and I smiled back.

One day my owner slept for a very long time. She didn't come to brush her hair. She missed my cleaning day. Later, some people came and took her away and the room fell silent. Each morning the daylight would come from the outside, but my owner never came back to sit down in front of me and smile.

But I always stood ready.

I'm looking back into the face of a young woman now. She's holding me and smiling. If she places me on the dresser to brush her hair each day, maybe I'll smile back.

Every Thursday morning I sit patiently on my lonesome boulevard in anticipation of my true loves arrival. This is the highlight of my week.

When I spot his manly truck as it rounds the corner, I begin to get all steamy inside. He teases me with his painfully slow driving. He stops at every neighbor’s curbside, just to torment me. After each house he hops back in his garbage truck and looks straight ahead, right at me. My weekly case of self doubt escalates as he nears. Will he notice the stains on my sides or the scratches on my bottom? Do I smell as fresh as I did the last time we touched? What I dread most is when I am stuffed so full that my lid rests askew, balanced on top of my bulging mounds, revealing my privates. As embarrassing as this is, he never lets on that he notices. He can be such a gentleman.

Yet he has a bad boy side to him as well that drives me wild. As soon as he is within arms reach he rips off my lid exposing me in all my glory. I love the way he firmly grabs my love handles and throws me around. He treats me rough and makes me feel dirty, but in a good way. When he hoists me up and I rub myself against his hard body I have no choice but to completely surrender myself to him. I pour out my all from deep within as he slams me against his truck. I give him everything I have to offer. When I am spent I enjoy one last fleeting moment in his strong arms. But then it all goes so horribly wrong.

Once he has had his way with me he kicks me to the curb. Completely spent, I can no longer sit upright and must lie down. I’m left rolling on the cold ground feeling so empty inside. He leaves without even saying goodbye. Demoralized, I watch jealously as he has his way with all of the trashy cans down the street. Rarely does he even look back. Instead, carefree, he rides off into the sunrise.

For days afterwards I battle through a wide range of emotions. How could he? I hate him. I need him. I can’t wait to see him again. A glutton for punishment, I am weak and quick to forgive. As always, I keep coming back for more.

It is Thursday morning again and I’m waiting here on my lonesome boulevard. Maybe this time it will be different.

I come from a very large family. We were very poor and the house we stayed in was extremely small. Not more than a box really. I lived with my folks, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandmother. We kept to ourselves. I didn’t feel much love. Except for that from my grandmother.

In a bygone era our family used to live on a large plantation far far away. How I wish I could live free like that. Wide-open spaces; the sun on my face, not a worry in the world!

Most of my brothers and sisters left home early on in life. Many of them, we never heard from again. It was no surprise. They were happy to get out and forget about their past. But some of them I truly loved and missed when they went away. My sister Charlotte was one of those. She burnt to death a few hours after leaving home, in a fire at a bar downtown. Snuffed out in the prime of her life. Arson. The arsonist was never caught. I never did get over it.

I used to hear rumblings about how bad the outside world was. Rumours. Stories. Urban legends. About how we were restricted as to where we were allowed to go, where we could eat, where we could shop. About how we were discriminated against. About how we were shunned by some and thought utterly disgusting by others. I was never one to believe stories. The hushed talk didn’t worry me much. I wanted to experience everything I could! I wanted to leave my home and my family and live my life.

I wanted to feel what it felt like to be held in a man’s arms, to be brought close to his lips and to feel his breath all over me. I wanted to feel his hands touching me. I wanted to feel his unending desire to be with me. My brothers and cousins used to tease me when I would share this with them. They would call me hurtful names. Fag was the worst. It hurt me deeply. My brother Bruno used to sneer and say that I was poison, and that anyone near me would get sick and die a horrible painful death! I was the butt of many neighbourhood jokes. I would try block out their ridicule and would hear my grandmother’s voice saying softly, “Your time will come, sweet boy. Your time will come.”

And now, finally, my time has indeed come. I am ready to leave home. I am ready to live my life. I am ready to be me. I am ready to find that man of my dreams. I will do my ancestors from the plantation proud. I will do my grandmother and Charlotte proud. I will not let the name of Marlboro down. I will go down in a blaze of glory if I have to. But at least it will be mine. To the last puff, I will be me…

I lay, numb, hardly able to bear the loneliness throughout the night, waiting for that slim sliver of sunlight to pierce the dreams of my omnipresent god, he who wakes soon and embraces me.
Yea, tho I lay silently, stuffed dispassionately near Winne the Pooh, I swell with pride as I await my master's voice, and ensuffer the slings and arrows of the misfortune of being shoved under an odiferous diaper.
This is my fate, I am small, but I have been awarded a great honour. Truly I have been sanctified, even blessed, the most glorious am I, He Who Drags Me Everywhere, my memories are a magnificent tapestry of experience in my short delicious life.
I have suffered for my master, many times, as warm pureed peas and carrots have stained my armour, as dogs teeth have savagely attempted to tear me from my master's arms, as tricycles and matchbox cars have used and abused my very soul.
These are trying times, yet I bear the horrors of the screams and outrage of cooked beets, because I also know the warm coos of Gerber Pudding, and it has been said that joy and sorrow walk through the same door.
The firm arm of my Master begins to search for me, the morning birds awaken him with their fastidious preaching, Wake Up! O Ye Golden One, He Who Has A Pants Full, Awaken!
The screams of my Master are soon quieted as He finds me, as I feel Him pull me into His arms, where I am anointed every morning with the Holy Drool.
What will the day bring, who knows, who cares, because this is my my fate! My life! My reason for existence! I!
Blankie! I serve with humility! I soothe the troubled One! I am the balm that heals when monsters hide in the night-closet, I am the medicine that calms the weary when my Master tumbles down the stairs into the laundry basket.
No, not even Binky , nor even the enviable Pooh, can undermine my importance! They both know this Truth, yet refuse to believe it, fools that they are!
I am my Master's servant, and will serve til my fiberous being is shredded into pulpous thready whatnot.
I bow to my Glorious Fate.

The life of a microwave is probably considered boring and dull. Just heat up this; defrost that. This apparent mediocrity, however, doesn’t mean I am uninteresting. I am aware of what goes on around me. I wonder about the nature of existence.
I think about her.
She is the most divine creature that graces the Earth. She chose me, bought me and placed me in pride of place on her kitchen bench-top. She is Sarah, and I love her.

I suppose you are wondering how a mere machine like myself is capable of feeling love. What is love, other than a deep caring about someone? The need to help them; to please them? Love, put simply, is warmth in your heart and who is capable of more rapid warmth than a microwave?

At first, I felt that Sarah shared my affections. She was so proud of my many features. She thought my crisp white exterior and shapely viewing window were very attractive. We were virtually inseparable – we spent every meal together. She was truly the one that turned me on.
Then things changed.
All of a sudden, she started missing the evening meal. Then I heard her on the phone telling someone about the cooking classes she’s been attending. The next thing I know, she’s preparing meals and cooking them in the oven.
The oven!
What does the oven have that I don’t? He’s so slow – all that time he has to spend preheating, and them he takes forever to cook anything. I’m fast and I ready when she wants me, but she doesn’t care about that. Apparently the oven cooks tastier meals.

I can’t believe how she has tossed me aside. I’m not good enough to cook her meals anymore, just to reheat the fabulous meals that the oven cooked the night before.
Sarah has just used me! Whenever it’s convenient for her, she takes advantage of me. I wish I could defrost her heart…

That’s it. I can’t take this anymore – the rejection; the lack of trust. I don’t want to exist anymore. That’ll show her. I’ll disconnect one of my wires, then the next time she comes to use me, I won’t work anymore. Then Sarah will miss me and realize what she’s lost.

Goodbye, cruel kitchen. Farewell, Sarah, you heartless…

BEEEEEEEP