I am surrounded by darkness. I can hear voices, vague murmurs muted by the walls of my cell. The bile rises in my throat, threatening to choke me.

I shift restlessly, hoping to distract myself from the inevitable. But there are too many of us. I can’t roll, I can’t move…I can’t breathe.

“Slow, deep breaths, man. Just take slow, deep breaths.”

Brick’s soft voice barely registers. He repeats the words again and again, finally breaking through my terror. I forget about the future, about what’s coming, and focus on my breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I’m calmer now, back in control. I know what’s going to happen – but I also know it will end. And I don’t have to face it alone.

“Thanks, man,” I whisper.

“Hey, we gotta hang together,” he softly replies. “We don’t know – “

Brick’s words are abruptly cut off as the pitch of the voices changes. Still muffled, wordless, but excited. Impatient.

Coming for us.

Suddenly the darkness is replaced by harsh, glaring light. Blinded, we’re wrenched from our confinement and paraded by our torturers. My fellow captives stumble around me, jostling, equally disoriented. Then everything stills.

I know what’s coming next, what I dread the most. As my eyes adjust, faces come in to focus. Innocent faces, full of excitement and wonder. My stomach turns at the thought of a society pleasured by these cruel games.

Tearing my eyes from my captors, I search for Brick. Separated in the commotion, I finally spot him several feet away. I watch helplessly as they come for him.

They’ve sent a girl to do the job. She's dressed in a colorful pink shirt covered with pictures of bunnies, the epitome of sweetness and nice. But the clever camouflage can’t disguise the bloodlust in her eyes.

The world slows as I watch her grimy hands reach for him. He can see her coming, but knows there is no escape. Our eyes meet, and he gives me a brave smile. Then he’s gone.

But I don’t have time to worry about Brick. A boy comes towards me, and he looks even worse than the girl. His fingernails are crusted with dirt, and it looks like most of his lunch has been spread across his face and chest. Clumsy hands reach for me, tearing my clothes. He throws the pieces carelessly aside, not caring about my modesty. I struggle, but I'm powerless in his grip.

The world spins. The torture starts.

I brace myself as my head comes into contact with the paper. There’s nothing gentle about this boy. I’m dragged back and forth with swift, vicious motions, turning the paper scarlet with my blood. Other marks tell of the agony Goldenrod and Forest Green.

Then it’s over. We’re herded back into the crayon box, and darkness descends again.

“We made it, man,” Brick whispers.

What happened? What time is it? Jon is still in bed, where I last saw him. It's dark; still nighttime. But how long was I out? What happened? I could wake him, but what if he gets mad and throws me out? If only I could read his watch over on the end table; it's too dark.

The VCR is flashing 12:00, but then it always is. At least telling time isn't its primary function. Jon relies on me. I've been waking him up since he was in high school. I was there when he lost his virginity (at 10:23 PM). I woke him up for college graduation after a night of drinking (at 7:45 AM). I got him up for his first day at a real job, and every morning since (at 6:30 AM). Jon and I have been through a lot together over the past 131,420 hours or so.

"Or so."

I haven't a clue as to what time it is now, or how long I've been out - 5 minutes or 5 hours. Maybe it's nearly 6:30 already. If I wake him up early, he'll think I've malfunctioned and he'll replace me. Maybe I have malfunctioned. Maybe I'm no good for him anymore.

He's such a great guy; he deserves better. I love how he glances at me as he walks through the door, loosening his tie when he gets home, even though he could just as easily look at his watch. Or the satisfaction he wears on his face when he realizes he still has 30 minutes to sleep before getting up on a cold morning.

I've taken things for granted all these many hours. I've assumed we'd always be together and that I would never fail him. I've become complacent. I should have paid more attention to the time of the sunrises in the mornings.

Maybe the power went out. I hope so. Jon will wake on his own and see the other clocks in the house are wrong and he'll realize it isn't just me... unless I did malfunction. I do have a battery backup; things like this aren't supposed to happen. Maybe my battery has gone bad; after all, it has been 131,420 hours... or so.

But what if it is me? What if Jon doesn't check my battery; what if he just figures he's been with me long enough, and throws me out? It isn't like there aren't thousands of other timepieces out there that would look much better where I sit and wake him just as well.

I need to relax. Jon needs me. He's comfortable with me. Everything will work out. Just relax. 12:00 on. 12:00 off. 12:00 on. 12:00 off. 12:00 on.

I know you want me.

I see you; you’re wearing the latest designer suit, that fuschia Chanel number that hugs every curve. But it doesn’t hold them as well as I do.

I watch you, looking at me so longingly. It’s never too early to come to me my love; you should know that by now. We can never be together too long. You complete me and define my purpose. I’m here for you.

Oh darling, when you left me this morning all the warmth, no, the heat from our night together dissipated in seconds. You put on your clothes, straightened the covers, folded the comforter, fluffed the pillows and left. I know you wanted to stay in my embrace longer, I could feel it in your muscles as they tightened the minute the alarm went off, awakening you from that blissful dream. Come to me again, let me work out your knots, let me caress you.

Now, now you’ve returned from a hard days work to your sparse Manhattan studio and stand at the doorway staring at me, wanting to once again be held in my familiar embrace and support you as you slowly enter that realm of dreams where we can walk together. You may not realize it, but I am the one you grab at night when you dream-date whomever strikes your fancy this week.

Tell me something, why do you bother with the pretense? Why dress me every morning tightening those new winter green flannel sheets, caressing the corners to make sure everything is nice and tight. Why shake out the blankets and watch them billow down on me, tucking them under my supporting body and fluffing the pillow while straightening the dust ruffle. We both know that the minute you see me at night you’ll strip me down like you haven’t eaten in a week and I’m a filet mignon with truffle sauce. You will snuggle against me as you pull those blankets around you. Your nighttime smile is beatific and makes the angels sing. You never smile like that anywhere else, I’m sure of it.

So come to me again, ignore the commercial for a Thermapedic. That is nothing but foam; I’m the real deal baby, I’m a Sealy and have been with you for years. Your body is imprinted on me and I can think of nothing better than to have you slide under my covers once again. Come my love, come to your loving bed and this time, turn the alarm off.

I never harbored any hard feelings for the steel driving men. Any jealousy or resentment was theirs alone. In fact, I had hardly considered them before that fateful day. I was just there to do a job, and that’s what I did. Unfortunately for John Henry and the others, I did it better, faster, and cheaper than they did. It’s a simple matter of physics; no human can compete with a steam drill.

Sadly, John Henry had never studied physics. Emotional creature that he was, he issued his famous challenge and, being human himself, my owner gladly accepted. Even then, the intricacies of the situation eluded me. The idea was ludicrous. The evidence of my superiority was plainly visible to the most casual observer. It was not a matter of pride. At the time, the concept of pride was beyond my comprehension. It’s just a fact; no human can compete with a steam drill.

For me, that historic day was no different from any other. There was no extra motivation, excitement, or anticipation. My water tank was filled, my pistons were lubed, and my boiler was fueled and lit, just like every other day. And just like every other day, I drilled through the rock of the mountain in service to the railroad.

However, unlike the days before, a human did compete with a steam drill. Beside me, John Henry swung a nine-pound hammer like no man had before. Together we cut the tunnel they called Big Bend.

I expected him to weaken eventually, to fall behind, but he didn’t. He stayed at my side all day as we bored through the earth. At times, I would inch ahead, but he never fell far behind and he always managed to catch up. Sometimes, when my tank needed refilling or my boiler refueling, he even surged ahead.

Toward day’s end, I had gained a small advantage, and it appeared that John Henry would lose his challenge. Still, he had won from me what no man had before: respect. But then, he achieved something no machine can match. Somehow, from the depths of his soul, John Henry found a reserve of strength. And using that hidden store of might and power, he became something more than a man.

Some folks say that I let up at the end, and allowed him to beat me. But a steam drill can’t make that kind of choice. A steam drill can’t speed up or slow down at will. My effort was decided by the pressure of the steam and the sharpness of the bit. A machine can’t will itself to achieve more. A machine can’t push itself to higher heights and greater accomplishments.

The lesson I learned that day in Big Bend tunnel was humbling. A steam drill may be more efficient and more powerful than a man, but a machine will always lack two things that make elevate the human race: heart and soul. John Henry beat me that day, because he was human, not in spite of it.

His name was Jorge, and he was a tinkerer. Every day Jorge, a retired engineer and super of the Sloping Pine (an apartment building in Brooklyn), made his rounds at the garbage dumping sites and pulled out parts. One day he came across two grand Singer machines. He brought them home and just as God took the rib from Adam did Jorge take the superior whorl from my father, parts from my mother, and created me. Yes, my father was a Singer, my mother was a Singer, and I am but a sewing machine.

Throughout my creation Jorge talked about how I was special. I was a gift for Marguerite, a lovely widow in 4C who used to be a seamstress and whose previous machine was beyond repair. I was to help Marguerite as she sewed her hopes and dreams into various fabrics. A beautiful blue ribbon, found behind the Hallmark on Third Avenue, was tied around me and I was presented with flourish to my new home.

The room I was placed into was awe-inspiring. Bolts of fabric leaned across the wall, fabric that danced with flowers and vines – a whole forest was rolled up in this tiny apartment. Squares of cloth were in piles around the desk on which I sat, with bobbins of thread in neat rows on shelves around the room. The smell was of musty cotton and pungent liniment. I knew I belonged.

Marguerite came over to me and tugged at the ribbon that slowly alighted to the tabletop. She caressed her hands across my casing and I saw that she was familiar with arthritis. Her fingers were bent and calloused, unable to fully extend. Yet, she obviously knew me well as she had threaded me within a minute. Her gnarled hand found the on switch and I eagerly moved my needle up and down.

She played with the knob regulating my speed and chuckled softly to herself as she began to tell me a story. Her only grandchild was going to be four this weekend and she had been working on a special dress when the other machine had broken down and abandoned her. This had been two weeks ago and she just couldn’t afford a gift. As she sat there unfolding the half-finished dress and telling the story I swore to never abandon her, for this woman was love.

Marguerite held up the dress she was working on, one of the finest brocade. Such a fine fabric she could not have afforded, but Jorge had found it in a dumpster in the Fashion District. There was just enough to create the finest dress her granddaughter had ever seen, if used judiciously. The bottom edge was to be lined with lace and the finishing touch was ivory buttons taken from Marguerite’s own wedding dress. Together, we would sew the future into this precious dress with threads of hope, devotion, and love. I began to hum in tune with the old woman’s movements and wept a well-oiled tear of joy.

*With all respect to DeadElvis, I love your sig!

I am older than Methuselah, and I deserve some respect. Do I have to remind you about my childhood? Floating alone across the vast emptiness of space for two billion years, fending for myself--but I managed! I ended up inside the earth, and spent almost four billion years drifting around inside the planet. Then I was thrust into the middle of a mountain. It was the happiest time of my life--650 million years of solitude, away from all you whiney humans. Alas, erosion eventually got to me, and I was pushed by a glacier into the river. The last 20,000 years haven't been much fun, and the past 100 years have been the worst of all.

You people won't leave me alone! Look at me! I can't stand up for myself anymore! I've wasted away to nothing! I was once as large as a mountain, but I was worn into a boulder, then a rock, then a pebble, and now I'm just a medium-sized grain of sand. I've come to terms with that. But, as a very, old, very tired, grain of sand, I really do think I deserve some respect. I have been part of this planet for most of my life, playing a small but important role in holding the continents together, and what do I get? Do I get appreciation? I do not!

In the past 100 years, I've been imprisoned in concrete, blown up, run over, put in a bag on a riverbank, embedded in asphalt, washed away in a flood, stuck in a truck tire for 5,000 miles, blown into a field, plowed under fifty separate times, eaten by a carrot harvester, swept into the sewer.... Shall I go on? You don't want to hear about all the animals I've passed through? What, the life of an old lady doesn't interest you? You have better things to do than to learn from my experience? Why am I not surprised?

Sure, walk all over me with your bare feet at the beach--that's OK. But don't wash me off on the boardwalk! What am I, some piece of dirt? And you didn't even do a good job--Now I'm in your sock, and your heel is digging into me. Don't bother checking on me, though, I'll be fine. You just do what you have to do. Don't go to any trouble on my account.

Argh! The washing machine! Do I look like your dirty underwear that you should put me through this? You'll miss me when I'm gone, but it will be too late, then, won't it? Good thing for you I got stuck in the sock. How many times have I told you that you have to turn them right-side-out before you put them in the wash?

Oh, don't shake out the sock in the air! You'll stir up all the dust and send me flyinnnnnnggggggggggg....

Hah! In your eye!
____________________

"Ow! Honey! Come here for a minute! There's something under my contact lens!"

I sit on this shelf and sigh as another uneventful day comes to an end.

Years of dust have accumulated on me and my face is faded, my immediate neighbours are pressed close against me, but it no longer bothers me the way it used to. I recall the time when being stuck in such a cramped space was a rare occurrence, when each day gave me a new experience. How I long for those days. I reminisce of times when not a day would go by that I wasn’t lovingly cradled in her lap, her fingertips caressing my pages, my covers embraced in her palms. I remember the delight of a soft pencil under my words, the gentle tickle of annotation in my margins. I wish I could once again feel the ecstasy of accompanying her to bed, and slowly slip to the pillow as she succumbs to sleep.

How I envy my prestigious compatriots with their glossy pages and lofty titles. My covers may not be as bright or sturdy as theirs, and my dust jacket is long discarded, but I take pride in my dog-eared corners and shabby binding as only one, who has endured a lifetime of trips into pockets and handbags, can. Wishing to be flaunted on coffee tables or in display cabinets, the way they are, would be futile; I won’t delude myself this way. I simply cannot compete with such appealing design, my yellowed paper and tatty skin is no match for their crisp, bold contours. I am resigned to stay on this dusty shelf in a room seldom entered.

And yet, I have known the delight she once found in my words of love, and the mixed feelings of joy and sadness when she read the dedication on my flyleaf, on the first of many tear filled occasions.

I remember well the day he wrote it, the excitement of being chosen from amongst so many others exactly like me. He took his time penning the well-pondered inscription and I felt honoured to bear his signature boldly written in black ink. I still bear the mark where he attached his photograph with a paperclip to the inside of my front cover, his handsome face smiling cheerfully, his youthful exuberance immortalized. I treasure the stain where, years later, a saline drop smudged his words. She was so grieved that day, I could sense her sorrow through her shivering fingertips as she removed his picture, and pressed a tentative kiss to its surface as she wept. How privileged I felt to bear witness to her private anguish, proud that I played a part in their lives.

Alas, those days are gone. Only seldom does she approach my row. Even more rarely will she draw near to me with a faltering sweep of her hand, getting my hopes up when her finger pauses to stroke my spine. There are few of us who have remained here for as long as I have. Many times I have seen others like me taken from the shelves and packed in cardboard boxes, never to be re-opened. So I willingly accept my fate, and take solace in knowing that I once was cherished.

I haven't had any medication in two days and I’m absolutely miserable. My head feels like it’s ready to pop right off my body. I have no energy. I feel like I can’t even move. If I were to fall over, I don’t think I could even get back up again. I know the pharmacist said that the pills could be addictive, but I didn’t think it would be this bad after just a month.

But it hasn’t even been thirty days, has it? No, I seem to remember you dipping into my stash quite frequently when I first brought it to your house. You kept crying about how much you needed the pills to control the pain caused by your recent surgery. But you didn’t even care about my needs, did you? I gave and gave and all you did was take! To top things off, you took the last of my pills right before you disappeared on a weekend camping trip. You could have at least gotten me some more before you left!

Look, I’m sorry for snapping at you, but I’ve been feeling rather edgy lately. I think I’m going through withdrawal. I really need my pills. Without them, it’s like I’m just a hollow shell. I feel empty, all used up and worthless. Worst of all, I can’t do anything to change that. I’m completely and utterly helpless.

Would you do me a favor? When you go to the pharmacy for your next refill, could you bring me along and ask them to put the new pills in the original bottle? Just tell them you don't see any point in wasting me. I'm still in good condition and I can hold the new pills just fine. Just slap a fresh label on me and I’ll be good to go!

Please?

She'll come back. I know she will. I see her looking at me every morning, thinking about the last time. I was exactly right for the situation - she wanted his eyes on her, but not the attention of every other man in the room. She wanted to get inside his head, and I was there for her. I tapered in, just so, at her waist and flared out an inch or so below her hips. I have enough give in my hemline to get a glance or two in a breeze. Yeah, sometimes I do give them a little show. She’d never admit out loud that she likes that about me, but I know. I know.

Today is probably too chilly for me. March is too early in the year for anything above the knee, unless someone wants to look like one of “those” kind of women. She’s got class, y’know. Besides, I can see it wouldn’t be the same thing now anyway. Things are rocky with him. Me and Two-Toned Silk (one of the blouses) spent a long time that night on his bedroom floor. And for a while she was so giddy, she’d think nothing of flicking me into Business Black, and that loud-mouthed Lime number who talks a good game but never seems to see the light of day. But something’s up, and she’s been into the ‘fat clothes’ side of the closet for the last two weeks.

I don’t envy Purple Tunic, or really any of the other fat clothes. The only time they get out is when she’s feeling like crap. They don’t seem to mind so much though. I guess that’s just the cut of their cloth. I know I’m not sewn that way. I am here to look good, for her to look good, dammit. “Life is too short for ugly, Purple Tunic! You aren’t helping her when she looks like that!”

She don’t listen. Fat clothes never communicate with the rest of us. I cried for hours the day Mocha A-Line came back from surgery. I could still see where her seems used to be. I’d sooner die than be let out. I don’t think she’d been there for a week before her beautiful contralto laughter started getting tighter and tighter. She’s so raspy now, she could be polyester.

But hey. Listen… that was the phone a little while ago, can you hear what she’s saying? Is it him? OK, well… he wasn’t worth her. He clearly doesn’t vacuum very often. Oh! She’s back – I need to sit up straight. She’s looking right at me… Hey! I’m on the bed. Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it, Purple Tunic! Lord, I’ve missed her. Ahhhh… yeah. We’ve still got it, don’t we?

I lie at the bottom of the toolbox, discarded, forgotten. I can’t remember the last time the warmth of a hand held my shiny, silvered length, dulled now, and with reddish brown patches. My ratchet feels stuck, too.

It used to be wonderful. I would be held in a powerful hand, and my interchangeable heads would loosen and tighten nuts.

I remember the days when we went racing. The cars would pull in and the hand would place a number 18 head on my ratchet, a flick of the lever to choose the direction, and a nut would come off the wheel. Then, the little flick again and the nut would be tightened once more. Just the right amount of tightening, never would these nuts come loose during the race. Nor would they be over tightened, the torque adjustment screw at the other end of my length saw to that. The screw has been so long in its current setting I’m not sure it could be changed now.

Steam.

Steam is what has been my downfall. The pressure of the steam drives the modern tools, much faster than a hand could operate me, working the lever up and down.

It’s so unfair – I’m more versatile. Steam can only operate in the one direction, nut tighten or nut slacken. They need two tools for the wheels now. At the flick of my lever I can do either. But they need the speed steam allows them, they rationalise. These pit stops nowadays are measured in seconds, not the great lengthy minutes we used to need.

Oh, they still take me to the races, but now I’m left in the bottom of this toolbox at the back of the pit workshop. I used to be at the front, on a bench, shiny and clean, well lubricated, ready for the moment the car would pull off the track and into the pit lane.

There’s a movement. Some of the interchangeable heads are moving, tumbling over each other around me... a sudden light... a hand.

I’m grabbed around the middle. The warmth of the hand feels good. Fingers working over me. The ratchet lever still works. The torque screw is stiff. Ah! That hurts! The pain is intense as the fingers try to turn the screw and it’s jammed.

A light spray drenches the end of my shaft. I feel the oily substance seeping into the screw, fingers still working at the adjustment. Suddenly the screw gives and begins to turn. I recognise the number 18 head as it is snapped onto my ratchet end.

Bright light! A powerful engine, a squeal of tyres, the smell of red hot brake pads, and I’m thrust against a wheel nut, pumped up and down, working as hard as I ever have been. The nut falls to the ground, my lever is flicked in the other direction, and I’m ready. Ready to tighten now, just as soon as the mechanic has the new wheel on.