Anthropomorphize It

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

You think you've got problems? Wait until you hear about my life. Let's start with looks. You hate your skin? A little zit ruins your whole week? You've got nothing on my rough, pebbly skin. It doesn't seem to matter what I do, I'm always breaking out. One day of smooth skin, that's all I'm asking for.

Of course, my complexion isn't helped by the fact that this one guy is always rubbing his stinking, sweaty hands all over me. You there, acne boy, yeah, you - would you let someone come within twelve inches of your face on a bad skin day? You know what I'm talking about - who needs someone else's oil when your skin's got plenty of its own?

But it doesn't stop there. This guy rubs his hands all over me, and then gets a good grip WITH HIS FINGERS ON MY LACES! I tell you, there is nothing more undignified than getting groped by some sweaty jock and not being able to do a thing to stop it.

There's more. Once he's through feeling me up (and he really doesn't have a clue what he's doing in that department, let me tell you!), he throws me through the air! The world spins around me in this horribly tight little spiral - the centrifugal force is going to rip my skin off one of these days, I just know it. Just when I'm sure I can't take any more, some other guy catches me. At least he doesn't touch me with his bare hands, but those gloves that he wears sure are sticky.

If I'm really lucky, that other guy won't catch me after all, and I take a nose-dive into the mud. Ah, the sweetness of a muddy gridiron. The mud isn't spa quality, of course, but it feels lovely after those sweaty hands. Astroturf is even better - it's like lying on a bed of moss. Heaven!

If I'm unlucky, then I get KICKED A HUNDRED FEET IN THE AIR. Underneath my poor, hard, leathery skin, I'm just a permanent mass of bruises. I'm also afraid of heights.

The worst thing about it all is that if, after being hurled through the air, someone succeeds in catching me, a crowd of other sweaty men proceed to fight over me, as if I was some sort of prize to be won. I object to having people tussle over me like dogs fighting over a bone. I couldn’t possibly be treated in a more degrading fashion.

It’s a hard-knock life for me, and moments of happiness are few and far between. I take pleasure in the fact that if I get loose on the field, I’m damn near impossible to catch. It’s quite amusing to watch grown men tripping over themselves as they try to stop me from bouncing away. They’re small moments, but if you’re a football like me, you have to take what you can get.

I wonder why they don’t visit as often anymore. They used to come see me all the time—a few times every day. But lately, it’s been like they’re embarrassed to be in the same room with me. I don’t understand…we used to be such good friends.

I remember the first time we met. It was just before a camping trip, and they decided to bring me along. The long drive out there, chatting and gossiping. The mountains were still gleaming with snow on the top, and the streams were clear and crisp and fast. It hailed, and we all sat inside, waiting for the clouds to break.

They used to keep me inside. We’d sit and watch TV, laughing and crying at shows and movies. I’d watch as she read, or cleaned the house. He’d carry me from room to room as he worked.

But now…they moved me to the garage 2 weeks ago. I’ve been waiting for them to stop by. Waiting for that little spark that binds us together.

He came out last night. Didn’t even turn the light on, just stood in the corner, with the door shut, like he was ashamed to be out here with me. She never came out—I wonder if they fought about something. Surely, not me? It’s been a week since she last stopped by. I’m still doing my job, right? I mean it’s not like I quit working, or anything.

Here she comes now…Maybe…But no; she’s just bringing out the trash. She looks at me…shakes her head.

“I need another piece of Nicorette™. I’ll get rid of that ashtray as soon as we quit smoking!”

Quit? Why would they do that to me?

My dearest love,

Where did I go wrong? When did you stop needing me? When did you stop loving me? I once had all the answers, but now my heart is filled with merely questions as to why we’ve parted ways. I thought I was everything to you. Was I not?
When you needed a plumber at 2am did I not have a name at the ready? When you couldn’t reach that last box of double-fudge brownies on the top shelf, did I not lay down at your feet? Did I not allow your endless, infantile doodling to tattoo my cover? And who, who, took the hit each time an insect dared to travel your walls? It was me. Every time, it was me. I’m the one that found your new gynecologist; I’m the one that knew who to call to when the car wouldn’t start and I’m the one that knows the number to your favorite Chinese take-out by heart, but apparently none of that matters anymore.
I’ve heard the whispers, the rumors. You’ve found someone new. Someone that isn’t so thick around the middle, that’s a little more portable. Yeah, I know, I’m looking a little worn; a little tattered around the edges, but who wouldn’t be after years of undying servitude? You gave me these creases, this wrinkled spine and now you’ve moved on. On to someone sleek and shiny who can give you answers at the push of a button. Well let me ask you this, you heartless wench, where will you be when the power goes out? Who will save you when your online sweetheart takes a dive? Don’t look at me. Your fingers have done the walking for the last time. I’ve done my duty and now I’m out of here. There was a time I would have burned my own pages just to warm your hands, but those days are gone. I will no longer allow myself to be used like an old phone book. I have more dignity than that.
Good luck in finding whatever it is you’re searching for out there. You’ll never find another love like mine. Never.

No longer your slave,

Dex

Fort Q-tip boot camp is no walk in the park.

Sure, we are not subjected to 5-mile runs, and push-ups are pretty much out of the question since we don’t have arms, but grunts are put through the gin like any other cotton soldier.

Many in my class went AWOL. They just didn’t have the backbone for it. I’m not sure if people realize how difficult it is to stand perfectly straight in formation, all the while preserving the soft cottony bulbs we trained so hard to maintain. Only the most determined and disciplined can do it.

On the eve of graduation from boot camp, the number of AWOL recruits neared 50 percent. That night, I laid upon my thin cot, struggling to sleep. The sickly sweet smell from across the yard burned like napalm in my fibrous nostrils.

I knew where the AWOLs went, those who didn’t have the backbone, who could not hold their posture to the straightest measures. From my bounceless mattress I gazed out the window and across the training compound.

Past the officers’ quarters and beyond the space occupied by the schools, libraries, and baseball fields that the officers’ children enjoyed, there towered smokestacks that spewed cloying clouds of sugary smoke.

A candy factory.

In this town, there were few options for the cotton folk like us. Either go to Q-tip boot camp or resign yourself to a toiling life in the confectionary mill. The latter option is not a pretty one. The candy business is hazardous, and not particularly rewarding.

I had made my choice.

I did not sleep that night. I tossed and turned, my rest disrupted by the fates of those who had surrendered the dream. I was on the verge of getting my dress blues, but the emotional blues I felt seemed to take away from the impending ceremony in the morning. I should have been excited, but I could not be.

The AWOLs would become nothing more than lollipop sticks.

I know. Life is not fair. Some of us are lollipop sticks, only to be discarded after the sweet candy center is sucked away. Others, like myself, we stick to it and push ourselves, striving to be the best that we can. All I ever wanted to do in life was to help others. My superiors told me that I would be afforded that opportunity soon. I knew not what my mission would be, but I was willing to accept it.

After my graduation ceremony, I marched with my fellow soldiers to the discharge area. Blue boxes were on the ground, flaps open to allow us entry for our mission.

I didn't know where I would be going as I jumped into my assigned box, but I was mighty proud to be a Q-tip.

I caught a glimpse of the candy factory before leaving. Shaking my head, I considered the AWOLs now laboring there. I whispered one last passing thought:

“What a bunch of suckers.”

I trusted the lady with the squinty eyes, that is, until she shoved me really hard into a small cardboard box tightly fitted with 19 others just like myself. She bent me! She didn’t even seem to care! Just before this cruel betrayal took place, I was lovingly Saran wrapped while being told that I would be going on a great adventure. The squinty eyed lady’s parting words to me were, “Everything will be OK. Trust me.”

Soon, my fears become a horrible reality. My heart sank. I felt a massive shiver run up my threaded core. I felt like I was a Holocaust victim being carted off in a boxcar to a concentration camp.

How could this be happening to me?! I’d been so careful to mind my manners, smiled at the factory workers and followed ALL of their rules!! The only stir that I’d ever created was the day, several months ago, when the sprinkler system went off in the factory. I admit, I freaked out in a manner that was a little over the top. I let out an ear piercing shriek and was unable to stop for over two hours!! Had I’d gotten wet, though, it would have been the end to life as I know it. The fear I experienced at that moment was profound. Yet no one heard my screams other than my peers, the humans never heard me. They don’t hear my language. Humans are not very bright.

After being packaged, I spent the next horrific and repressive seven months wondering what turn my life was going to take. Those in the box that were just like me were a complete bore. They all stood in an upright fashion and said not a word. It was like they thought they were soldiers at Buckingham Palace. During my box sentence, I was left alone to think and re-think only my own paranoid thoughts.

When the roof to the box, that I had come to refer to as my coffin, finally opened I quickly composed my light sensitive eyes and began smiling. My hope was to be the one the box to appear most desirable. I prayed I would be plucked first from the box.

To my delight the large woman pulled me first. She had unnaturally long fingernails and was oddly wearing no underwear. She turned me from side to side, examining me. Abruptly, I was tossed into a nearby wastebasket! Without a thought, the big woman selected one that was just like me. He was lifted from the box by her tong like fingernails. Oh! The luck of this Buckingham Soldier! The envy I felt was intense.

The woman peeled off the soldier’s Saran Wrap, then placed him in a place that was so completely hideous I can’t even bear to talk about it. I realized right then and there, that I’d made it through the fire. The squinty eyed woman had not deceived me after all. Everything had turned out OK.

My days consist of waiting in the hopes of being used. Today is the same as yesterday which will not change come tomorrow. I perform my duties with the accuracy and precision that my master possesses. I never tire or bore of my job. My job is to cut and I do my job well. For I am the knife.

From the beginning of time man found it a necessity to kill one another. From this necessity I was born and have thrived ever since. Over the centuries I have killed hundreds of thousands without fail. Men, women, children, and animals mean nothing to me. Flesh is flesh in the same. I have no soul thus I show no pity for those that scream or cry for mercy. My job is to cut and I do my job well. For I am the knife.

I am never the accused, hence forth I will never judge. Do with me as you will. Treat me with respect and I will do your bidding for all eternity. Keep rust from my skin so that I might slice the flesh of your choice in time of need. When willed in the right hand I am a God! My job is to cut and I do my job well. For I am the knife.

I have no age, sex, race, color, or creed. I am myself and my number is one amongst many. I have lived forever and will still be standing through the end of days. You are my master and I am but your humble servant. I am more than willing to serve your every whim. I will be by your side when everyone else abandons you. My job is to cut and I do my job well. For I am the knife.

I hang around in the restroom, motionless. She struts across the room towards me, anger flaming in the piercing eyes that stare straight through me like a knife. She stops yards in front and removes something small from the clutch bag on the counter. ‘Men’ she mutters disdainfully under her breath, replaces the item and turns and leaves just as quickly as she entered.

Thus is my existence.

If I were one of my frequent visitors I would have slit my wrists in anguish at the perpetual loneliness and solitude. The irony of the oxymoron would be laughable were it not so gut-wrenchingly desperate. They come and go all night; apparently it is perfectly conventional to share their most personal secrets with me then turn their backs for the rest of their lives. I am scarred physically too; apparently I double as a catalogue of local relationships. Their sentiments (good and bad) blur my vision, literally scratched into my very being.

Some of society’s biggest players go to the bar whose restroom I hang in. If I had the means I would be a millionaire purely from the scandal I could sell to the tabloids. Sex. Drugs. The Rock and roll lifestyle my unwelcome guests engage in never fails to surprise and sicken me.

The door swings open again and a pale girl who is blatantly a little worse for wear stumbles in. Her cheeks puff out as she enters, her hand hastens to her mouth and she lunges forwards for the sunk in front of me. The night’s frivolities cascade down between us, why do people feel the need to share such things with me?! She washes up and leaves.

I am alone again.

The time was exactly 8 o’clock. Josef’s internal alarm went off, and he woke up with a yawn and a flicker.

“Ahh,” he sighed. “Morning Frank,” he said to his compatriot, who was waking up next to him.

Frank flickered a few more times before finally coming to. “Morning Joe. How’s it going?”

“Same old, same old. You look a little green today,” Josef remarked.

“Yeah, I’ve had some bacteria growing for a while. How noticeable is it?”

“Not too bad. You just look a little sick.”

“I’ll get over it. Next scheduled cleaning is in only a few weeks.”

“That’s right.”

An awkward silence stretched over the deserted road. Josef was humming slightly.

“Hey, look, a car’s coming!” Frank exclaimed. “Ok, I get to turn off this time.”

“Say, didn’t you get to turn off last time?”

“No, you did, remember?”

“No, I remember that you turned off, cause I remember watching as a really nice Audi passed beneath me right before we went to sleep.”

“That was the second to the last car. I turned off for the Audi, but you got to turn off for that truck that came just a few minutes after. I think you were just tired and that you forgot about that one.”

“Hmm… well, I’ll take your word for it. Go ahead then. Here it comes.”

The Taurus came down the road, it’s headlights beaming. Frank flickered slightly, then turned off seconds before the car passed. Seconds later, it had gone by, leaving only the taillights to fade off into the distance. Frank turned back on.

“You know what,” asked Frank.

“What?”

“We’ve been doing that for fourteen years now, but I still get a kick out of it.”

“Yeah, it’s a hoot. I don’t know why it’s so fun, but for some reason, turning out our lights like that just is.”

“I know what you mean. Ok, here comes another one, your turn.”

The streetlight wavered, then turned off. The driver of the Explorer kept going, but she silently wondered why streetlights always seemed to turn off just as someone started to drive by.

It all started last winter. I was sitting on the shelf at the Wal*mart and this woman... This large woman... Grabbed me off my hook and started reading my back. I guess she decided that I suited her needs, because she threw me in one of the shopping carts that rolled past me so often. After sitting under six rolls of paper towels and fifteen cans of Spaghetti-o's, I was violently yanked from the cart and swiped across a laser beam. I know it sounds far-fetched, but I swear, it really happened. I got tossed carelessly into a plastic bag and tossed into the trunk of an old maroon sedan.

It was a dark, bumpy ride, full of twists and turns. Then the heavy-set woman dragged me from where ever I was and took me inside her shelter. Once inside, she tore the plastic casing from my figure and tossed it aside. She smiled at me with her somewhat rotted yellowish teeth. Her grubby fingers stroked my bristles as she toted me down a corridor to a small, smelly room. I remember a porcelain basin full of small hairs and dried toothpaste-tainted saliva. I warn you, what I'm about to tell you is not for the squeamish! That ogre of a woman smeared toothpaste on my head and put me in her disgusting mouth! Such brute force she used! Shredding my bristles against her cavity-filled molars and canines!

When that horror was over, she placed me head first into a glass of tap water. There I sat for a few hours, hoping, praying that this was just some strange initiation, and not a daily thing. But I was wrong. Dead wrong. After a while, she came back. I somehow knew the terror was to repeat itself. Now I hear her talking with that man in the hall... something about replacing me... It's now been six months since that day. I've gone camping, gone to sleepovers, and been lost under the fridge. And now I'm being replaced... That's my story... The lowly life of a toothbrush.

“Telephone rings]
[Boy who answers phone:] Oi fala comigo
Guy on phone: Yo let me talk to Snoop
Snoop answers phone: E ai?
Guy on phone: Yo dog we on the way to do the video
Snoop: Fo shizzle! “

This is what I am forced to write day in and day out. Me, a beautiful platinum Cross Townsend pen. I was meant for signing large checks in mahogany paneled offices. I was meant for writing tasteful notes of invitation to the latest high society gathering. I was meant for signing legal contracts merging giant corporations. But not this! Never this!
Here I am being handled by rough hands in a room that smells like skunk and big macs. My smoothly flowing ink records words that would make a sailor blush while my owner blathers on about “keepin’ it real”.
Every day I try to plan my escape. When he’s not looking I roll off the desk and try to make it under the couch but I just can’t seem to gather enough steam. He always sees me lying on the zebra skin rug and picks me up. “Seem like y’all gots a motor in you. You’s always rollin’ off the desk.” He puts me back in the holder and I wait for the next opportunity.
I try not to be such a snob but some truly awful things have happened to me here. I will never forget the time my owner tried to smoke me. His friends laughed uproariously at my pain and humiliation. “Yo, Snoop. What you think that is? That’s yo pen dude. How it taste?”
I haven’t been the same since. The dew has left my blossom. I swelter here in an unsuitable environment and long for release. Please, if you ever come to visit my owner, slip me in your pocket when he’s not looking. I’ll be forever grateful.

My birth was a strange one, a calm one, a passionate one, altogether strange but passionate. The glowing embers of my mother’s womb were ablaze by my master’s hand. In my creation I was tested, forged and cooled with the sweet, blood and toil of thousands of years. Every touch, stroke, caress and pounding has made me what I am today. Battle hardened and ruthless, there are none to oppose me, none to stand in my way. There is strength in being relied on, a calmness that makes you realizes that your place is there and your soul has a purpose.

My tongue is quick to cut and there to protect. I was trained by the best, learning all my master had to offer, burnishing me to a fine shine and polished to perfection. Engraved and instilled with the knowledge that had taken him years to master and glean on his own. As my birth was odd so was the end of my training, there is no time for this.., this…, this self revelry. There is no time to look back and see what was.., my time is now, and my purpose is now!

It’s still raining, charcoal black clouds roll in the smell of gun power and charred earth,
engulfing the senses. Wisps of smoke hugging the contours of the battle ground, and the burnt tree’s in the distance gave the afternoon an eerie feel. Death was visiting and was dancing in the play ground made by us! His air was the stench of the dead, and his music was the cries of the wounded. The hardened wooden amour tight against my skin gave me little comfort soon it will be my time to dance with death, to move to his music!

My masters hand on my head, gave me comfort and strength…

It had begun…. cool air and rain against my hardened body was refreshing, naked I had to tastes flesh. My silver body cleaving bodies in elegant speed and movement of a dancer, sing my song as I cut the air with angry passion. My only thought.. “I need to serve as I serve best!” In rapid succession they fell to me, they bowed to my strength and speed of my master. In offering of there life was given in a battle well fought. As it had begun it ended and in a clearing we stood, my master and I.

We alone, never apart!

Shouts of pride lifted my soul as my master lifted me in full view of all. I had done my job and done it well. My master wielded me as one with him. A swift swing in the cool air, and a sudden stop, a movement done with perfection, I was clean, no blood on my burnished body.

In sheathed silent mediation, I recreated the battle seeing the faces of those who had fallen, I have no regrets, my mind and spirit are clean and clear. I am my master’s strength; I am my master’s sword and a Samurai’s brother!

"I'm not paranoid or anything. Sure, I have my general anxieties and worries like all of us. But sometimes… Do you know that feeling? In all other respects it's a good life! I just lie around on my back, talk to my roommates, gossip a bit about what goes on in the rest of the building. My only concern is the darkness all the time. Oh, you get used to it. But a little blacklight in here might help!

But every once in a while there's this sudden burst of light and you never quite know what's going on. Somethings stir and then on of your roommates goes missing. We call it alien abduction, but we all know what's happening. We've all been there. And in a couple of hours the roommate is returned and we get to hear the same old boring story of the outside world. At least they always return in clean health and smelling fresh of limes and lemons. I could do with an abduction again! In smell a bit of old socks. But then I am not really needed that often. I'm perfectly happy though. It gives me time to think and contemplate.

I remember one time that I was taken and did not return for a long, long time. The routine was pretty simple. A burst of light, being taken and next thing you know you get dumped in some hot liquid... Which is nice. But then someone starts to stir the world around you violently and you feel all seasick. Well, I say seasick, even though I have never been to sea actually. However, that time it was same old same old, getting dizzy and something unexpected happened.

Instead of staying in the liquid until it had all gone I was taken out, which wasn't very pleasant at all, I'll tell you! The cold air wrapped around me and nearly froze to death. Anyway, I got thrown down somewhere, and I bumped my head on something and suddenly I found myself lying on something fluffy. Thank God it had broken my fall.
Well, to cut a long story short I expected the bath after that, and get home all freshly cleaned and smelling of citrus fruits, but I just lay there and lay there, for what seemed to be weeks. At first I was ok with it. But after a while I got really homesick.

Then something terrible happened. Call it a whirlwind, a hurricane or tornado, whatever, caught me and sucked me up in to a large black hole. I thought I going to die. It was very frightening. Anyway, the whirlwind stopped quite suddenly and luckily before I could adjust to that god awful dark, hellish and dirty place I ended up in, light streamed in and I was saved! I got bathed lovingly in my own bath, I didn't to share with anybody, and then I found myself back home again. Now that was some adventure, doctor!"

"Let me get this straight, you got used for stirring tea, fell from the table got sucked into a vacuum cleaner and were found again? Doesn't sound too extraordinary for a teaspoon... Anyway, our time is up...
Next please!... Ah, Mr. Butterknife, do lie down on the sofa..."

“Goood morning! Yessir I am indeed ready to go. Yep, yep, put the key in, press my clutch, oops wait check the parking brake, and CRRank! Weee let’s reverse, then shift, check the exits, and dooown the road hey check it out its Mr. James. Hey Mr. James! Aren’t you gonna say hey? Talkative this morning, aren’t we. Sheesh. Goin down the road, down the road, down the road, dodge the roadkill please. Gross. Now I have squirrel on my left rear tire. HEY look at that! Dirt road, 2 o’clock…3 o’clock…4…hey, erm, you missed it. Turn around. Ahem. Look man, I’m a Jeep, I can take that sort of stuff. Maybe it’s a shortcut. Why are we slowing down…? No no no you can make it, go for it, it just turned yellow and we aren’t that far away…aww jeez you stiff. Aieee hot coffee hot coffee in my leather HOT COFFEE man! Ok, taking a right, taking another right, Ohhhh jack me it’s a parking lot. Please don’t…no...NO…crud. Can you at least leave me running so I can listen to-”

I am considered by some to be of great value. For some I am the goal, the ultimate objective of life, almost worshipped. I suppose some scorn me, although I have yet to meet anyone who does not value me. You have seen me time and time again, and at times you have held me dear, and at others you have just forgotten I exist. You have even lost me, and rejoiced when I have been found. I have brought you some happy memories, and I have brought you some of the most miserable times. You have wept to see me go, and you have also rejoiced when I have left to bring something else into your life.
One day you will get old, and I will still be around, but you will complain that I don't bring you as much joy as I used to. Then you will die, and I will be given to your children, and thier children. I will continue to help where I can.
I am your money, and I am here to help.

I just don't understand people sometimes. I mean, do they not understand that I have feelings too? I'm passed around like some kind of cheap utensil and no one shows sympathy for me at all. Day after day I bring joy to thousands of people and get the job done right. They repay me by leaving me frequently behind. Now don't get me wrong there are some who know how to love me right.
For example, the nice businessman who ran across me on the musty gray floor of a large warehouse, a couple weeks back. He gently picked me up, dusted me off and polished up my shoe. Now, my friend, he knew how to treat me right. It’s not his fault I fell out of his bag on the subway. I'm sure he went back and looked for me but I was long gone before he got the chance. After him I didn’t think I would ever be able to feel the same about just anybody. I completely shut everyone out of my life. I was a total mess after that. There were days I would lie on my red and white striped sheets waiting for him to return. My new owner just didn't understand me the way he did. The next couple of months would be the worst I would ever have. I went from one person to another on a daily basis. I had five or six owners a day without even a second glance from anyone. I quickly shut my feelings off and did what I had to do, work. By the end of the month I was so roughly chewed and destroyed, I was barely salvageable.
My worst experience in those two months had to have been when my path crossed with a 19 year old boy. I was with him for about three weeks and he treated me like the dirt on his shoes. Stepping, kicking, biting, bending, snapping, and chewing on me like I was some type animal chew toy or something. He even let his two year old brother take me around the house one day and play with me. I thought my life was going to end until one glorious day. My boy had left me carelessly on his desk at school one day. I thought nothing of it until I saw a beautiful shadow standing above me. A girl with blond pigtails and bright blue eyes suddenly scooped me up and took me home.
Piggy, which is what I like to call her, is my current owner. We have been together for about six weeks and I'm the happiest I have ever been. I shine with pink and silver glitter she covered me in and at my neck there is a blue ribbon. I'm beautiful once again and I owe it all to her. There was a day when I didn't think I would survive my miserable life, but look at me now. This is my life as a pencil, a hard working fun loving gal who just enjoys getting the job done.

Life is lonely as a switch… Oh sure, it’s easy for you – just a flip of that finger and I do you bidding. You can move, walk, talk – do all sorts of things. But did you ever stop to think where you’d be without me? IN THE DARK! Oh yeah – just take me for granted, see if I care... Sure, being a switch has its ups and downs – but I am somebody! I am proud of what I do! Don’t pity me for God’s sake, and it’ll be nice if you washed your hands BEFORE touching me! Please, just once in a while!

I hope you know that in my off time, I’m always ready. All you need to do – well, you know by now, you’ve done it hundreds, no, THOUSANDS of times. OH YEAH, I can count. I can do other things too… Did you know that I can speak fluent Chinese – yeah, in fact I was born (made really) right over the pond in China. I can speak Cantonese and Mandarin.. Bet you didn’t know that! I bet you hardly think of me at all. I didn’t see my name on your invite to the big party you held the other night. I could hear you downstairs, laughing it up – having a good time, all while I’m stuck to this wall. But I’m not bitter, really I’m not.

All I ask is think of me sometimes, maybe just say hi. Sit down and have a chat if you like, maybe break out the cards - and a nice Windex bath every once in a while would be appreciated. I'm a switch, and I like what I do.

The name’s Key, A. Key. If you couldn’t already tell from my name, I am in fact a key. I am sure you are wondering what kind of things go on in the life of A. Key (sorry…sometimes I speak in Third Person). Things are usually boring. Occasionally I will be taken out and put in a very dark hole that seems to fit my body tightly and turned until I hear clicking noises. Being a claustrophobic and all, I don’t particularly enjoy this part of being a key, but its part of daily life. Another part of my life is being dropped, sat on, swallowed, etc… I have also been dropped down the drain more times than I can count. I have many friends on a thing called a key-chain that links all of us together, but they’re all pretty stiff and not very talkative. I also live in constant fear of going down the drain and never coming back. I still remember Freddie. Poor, poor Freddie. He was much older than me and the wisest of all the keys, but one day when he was off of his key-chain for whatever reason, the furry one came and dropped him right down the drain. Later that day I heard the sound of grinding metal and I knew that it was the end for Freddie. Oh, the keymanity! Now I know that the same fate awaits all of us keys, which is why I am making an organization called the Keys Rights Association. Soon we will gain enough popularity to be recognized by all, and before you know it we will RULE THE WORLD!!! Muahahahaha!

I am a butter knife. It really stinks. In a way I am very useful, but at the same time I am VERY useless. I can not cut anything. All I do is butter things. I feel so inferior to all the other knifes in the drawer. Like come on, at least they can saw through things and break pieces of food up. Can I do that? Nope. Not me. I sit in that dark, stuffy drawer waiting to put greasy butter on objects of food. Or sticky things like peanut butter, cheese wiz, and jam. Yuck. I mean just the smell of those sticky spreads make me want to gag. But I mean once they cover my shiny surface I can’t breathe anymore anyways. Sometimes they don’t even wash me after they use me! They just leave me sticking out of the peanut butter! It is horribly vulgar. When they do get around to washing me they leave little water droplets on me. Because they do that I get all splotchy and dull, this leaves me shamefaced in that gloomy, oppressive drawer with the other utensils. The worst is when they stick me in there reeking, unhygienic, smelling mouths. YUCK! Since I am not sharp they think they can lick me, which is just plain disgusting. I wish I was sharp so I could teach them a lesson. How dare they stick me in those dark drawers! I should be on the counter with the other “special” knifes. I’ll tell ya why there special. There sharp. I’m second class. A low life knife compared to them. I hate them all but wish I could be one of them so much. It’s not fair! I’ll just have to work my way up there. Maybe if my owners accidentally cut there finger washing the dished on me they’ll think I’m special to! Ooops, time to put this plan into action. It’s bath time!